


Zion's Bane

by Yatzstar



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Honest Hearts DLC, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2019-08-23 23:36:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 25
Words: 63,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16628660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yatzstar/pseuds/Yatzstar
Summary: The Courier knows no god, but she is merciful. The Burned Man knows one god, but he is merciless. In Zion Canyon, far away from where Bear and Bull snarl at each other across an Old World wall, the two must find balance before Zion's Bane destroys them both.





	1. Prologue

The Fox waits, staring into the coals of the fire before him. His head is bowed slightly, and to an observer, it is unclear if the dog’s head is but a hood, or a part of his very being. Indeed, the fire’s light turns its eyes to eerie points in the darkness. Flanking him stand two motionless vexillarii, each bearing a standard emblazoned with the Bull of the East.

The Fox does not react as the sound of bare feet upon the earth reaches his keen ears. He only continues to flip the long skinning knife he carries, catching it deftly by the bladetip at each toss. When he speaks, his voice carries all the rasping sibilance of a venomous snake, silky smooth and deceptively calm.

“I understand you have driven what remains of the New Canaanites to the place called Zion,” He says. “However, the eyes of the mighty Caesar remain upon you. You shall not be congratulated until they are exterminated unto the last.”

The Fox hears the armored hand of his audience close into a fist, and knows he is debating his chances of besting the Fox in one-on-one combat. The Fox’s thin lips curve into a smile—it _has_ been awhile since he’s put his skinning knife to good use. Ah, but there was still the mission to carry out. He shall restrain himself for now.

“Fortunately—or, perhaps not, great Caesar has decided to bestow a gift upon you, to aid you in your endeavor,” The Fox continues. “Many of our scouts were lost to the gods of the Big Empty to obtain what was needed, but at last we have succeeded in subduing Zion’s Bane.”

“Impossible!” Spits the one before him after a heartbeat of stunned silence. “Not even great Caesar could control that thing!”

“Then you underestimate Caesar’s power, tribal,” The Fox replies. “He gifts it to you as a weapon against the enemies of the Legion. Use it well…what did you say your name was?”

He hears his audience drawing himself proudly upright, before declaring, “I am Salt-Upon-Wounds! I will destroy the New Canaanites and salt the earth after them!”

“You’d better.” The Fox smirks at the other man’s arrogance. The spinning knife halts, its keen blade pointed at the tribal as the Fox looks up, a thin, dangerous smile on his lean face. The firelight reflecting in his eyes seems to be the very flames of hell itself. “Because if you do not, I shall make your death long and slow, bit by bit, until all the Utah resounds with the echoes as you scream for me to finish it!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you've probably guessed, this is (hopefully) the start of something much longer. I'm still doing lots of planning, but I'm just getting this up here now as extra incentive for myself. This means I probably won't be updating for awhile, but I DO have plans to continue, so just bear with me.
> 
> As a small side note, considering who taught the White Legs most of what they know (I won't say who to avoid spoilers), I think the White Legs would also emulate his unusual manner of speaking. So if Salt-Upon-Wounds sounds a little off, it's because I'm trying to form his dialogue in a very specific way that's quite different from, say, the Dead Horses. Just a heads-up for future chapters.


	2. Down to the River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't planned on updating until I better figure out where I want to go with this story (I know what I want to happen, just not how to get there, ya feel me?), but I realized I'd tagged this as shipping without actually showing either half of the ship, so here's some fodder to tide you guys over, and introduce most (though not all) of the main characters.

_As I went down in the river to pray,_

_Studying about that good old way_

_And who shall wear the starry crown_

_Good Lord, show me the way_

The words of that Old World hymn sprang to Joshua Graham’s mind as he stepped from the dim of Angel Cave into the midmorning sun, and he found himself softly humming strains of the melody in his path to the riverbank. The sun had just reached high enough to crest the walls of Zion Canyon, bathing the Dead Horses camp in peach-hued warmth. Fires, tanning racks, and lean-tos dotted the bank, and the canyon walls were painted here and there with handprints, crude drawings of bighorners and yao guai, and other markings created as the tribe had made the canyon their home.

The tribals made way for Graham’s passage, as they always did, and as always, the gesture irked him. They practically worshipped him, the legendary Burned Man who had cheated death over and over, but they could not or would not understand that it was not he who had given his life back to him.

Graham’s snakeskin boots crunched in the gravel as he knelt at the water’s edge and began delicately unwrapping the bandages that encased his left arm. The charred flesh beneath was a sorry sight, stretched tightly across the bony limb. Burning pain shot through the damaged nerve endings as the air touched them, and Joshua gritted his teeth against the agony. He eased the arm into the clean flow of the Virgin River, and could scarcely restrain a groan of relief as the cool, soothing waters flowed over it. Of course, this only lasted a few precious moments before the burning returned tenfold, and he wondered if he was only making things harder on himself by allowing a brief respite, like a torture victim being allowed a sip of water, which would only serve to make him thirstier.

“Joshua…Joshua!”

The Burned Man’s internal musings were interrupted by the sound of a familiar shout, accompanied by frantic splashing. Joshua rose, hastily rewrapping his arm, and looked down the river to see the young tribal Follows-Chalk stumbling through the shallows towards the Dead Horses camp, with what looked to be an unresponsive being slung over his shoulder.

“Southern passage—caravan—White Legs ambush—only survivor,” Chalk gasped, puffing from exertion as he splashed onto the bank. Graham took one look at the blood swirling away with the current as it dripped from the stranger’s trench coat and quickly hustled the tribal and his burden into Angel Cave, grabbing a Dead Horses’ spear as he passed a weapon rack.

“Set him down there,” Graham ordered, stoking the dying coals in the firepit and placing the metal spearpoint into the flames. “Look through his pack and see if you can find any medicine. Where’s Daniel? He’s far better at this than I am.”

“Daniel is at Sorrows’ camp,” Chalk grunted as he carefully laid the unconscious person upon a bighorner hide spread over the stone floor. “Morning Frost’s baby has come, but her labor has been long. Daniel and Waking Cloud have been helping her since late last night.”

Wonderful, thought Graham. Medicine was far from his specialty, but now it seemed the job of doctor fell to him.

“Lord, guide my hands,” He murmured in brief prayer, before kneeling beside the comatose form of the stranger. To his surprise, he found himself looking at the red visor and tough leather garb of an NCR Ranger. He reached down and unbuckled the straps holding the sturdy helmet in place, and carefully slid the headwear off, placing it aside.

“Aha! Med-X!” Follows-Chalk held up a syringe of blue liquid in triumph from where he had been squatted rummaging through the stranger’s pack. “Look at all these empty ones though! He must have fought like a wounded yao guai!”

The tribal scooted over to join Graham in gazing down at the newcomer’s unmasked face, and gave a gasp of surprise. “Oh! Make that a wounded yao guai mother!”

For indeed, it was a young woman whose pale face was made even paler for blood loss. Her shallow breathing scarcely disturbed the few golden hairs that had fallen in her face, the rest being bunched in a disheveled mat behind her head. Two small, circular scars marred her brow, just above the left eye.

“Looks like she’s seen her share of trouble,” Graham remarked, carefully sliding an arm under her head and shoulders to tug at her trench coat. “Help me get this armor off; preferably without cutting it. I have a feeling she’ll be needing it more in the future.”

Together Graham and Chalk managed to relieve the stranger of her blood-soaked armor, leaving her in only her dusty rodeo jeans, and a dingy, sleeveless undershirt that had once been white, but was now saturated crimson. Their work uncovered a 9mm pistol on her hip, and a combat knife strapped to her thigh, both of which Graham unbuckled and laid aside. Also revealed were two bullet wounds, one to her right forearm just below the elbow, and another to the left outer thigh, but they were less concerning than the crimson that soaked her shirt. Graham injected her with half of the Med-X syringe, before rolling up her shirt and grimacing at the sight.

“Yikes,” Chalk said, which Graham thought was an understatement.

“Looks like a spear wound,” The Burned Man growled, slow fury building as he probed the ugly gash, just above her left hip, which pulsed blood far too quickly for his liking. “Legion dogs; may God visit his wrath upon them.”

As Graham rose to retrieve the spear he had placed in the fire, the stranger stirred. Her eyelids fluttered, but her attempt at movement was halted with a gasp of pain.

“Do not move, _owslandr!”_ Chalk urged her, “You bad hurt! White Legs’ spears are nasty business!”

“Wha—where—am I?” She croaked, blinking as she tried to focus her pain-dizzied gaze on Chalk’s tattooed face.

“You are in the camp of the Dead Horses in Zion Canyon,” Graham replied, returning with the spear, its metal tip glowing red-hot. “Have no fear—you are among friends. What is your name, stranger?”

It took the young woman several seconds to process this, but she managed a hoarse, “Felina.”

“Felina,” Graham echoed softly, “Like the maid from El Paso. Well, Felina, I wish our first conversation had been a more pleasant affair, but as it is, I must tell you: this is going to hurt. Chalk, help me hold her down.”

“Huh? What?” Felina mumbled a protest, but could do little to resist as Graham straddled her legs, positioning himself awkwardly to keep his weight off the bullet wound while still keeping her from kicking out or rolling away.

“Sorry, _owslandr!”_ Chalk said sheepishly, kneeling at her head and taking her by the biceps, pressing them firmly to the floor. “Joshua, quickly!”

Felina’s hoarse, agonized scream echoed off the cave walls as Graham pressed the red-hot spearhead to the wound in her side. The metal sizzled on contact, the acrid stench of scorched flesh wafting into the air. Felina writhed beneath the two men, straining against them as her chest heaved with gasps of pain, but the blood flowing from her side began to lessen.

“I think that takes care of the worst of your wounds,” The Burned Man tried to reassure her, returning to his position at her side and administering the rest of the Med-X. “It looks like you’ve also taken two bullets, but judging by the holes, they both passed right through. This Med-X should dull the pain enough for me to dress them.”

Though still dizzy with pain, Felina managed a nod. Sweat beaded upon her brow, and she trembled as she bunched her fists in the thick bighorner hide. Her hazed vision was having trouble comprehending Graham’s bandaged face, only making out two points of blue in a mass of white, but whether it was the medicine or her mind being focused only on the pain of her wounds, it did not occur to her to be afraid.

“Chalk, take a few scouts and salvage what you can from the caravan while the White Legs are busy gloating over their victory,” Graham ordered as he rummaged through a crate of supplies in search of poultice material. “If it’s safe, see about giving the bodies proper burials. Their souls may be with the Lord now, but their bodies deserve better than becoming yao guai food.”

“Right!” Chalk leapt upright, Felina’s blood still staining his bandoleer, and hurried from the cave, leaving Graham alone with his patient.

“We should have given you a better welcome on your first visit to Zion,” The Burned Man said, returning to Felina’s side with a jar of water and a handful of supplies. “But it seems the White Legs beat us to it. I’m sorry. What can you tell me of the attack?”

The woman inhaled sharply, as though having a sudden memory, causing Graham pause. He looked at her face, and her eyes were wide and scared, staring at the stalactite-riddled ceiling. In that moment she resembled a wounded animal, ready to attack anything that came near.

“What is it?” He pressed cautiously, and her gaze flew to his face, her breath gasping from more than just pain. Graham tried again, “Did the White Legs do something else to you?”

“Not White Legs—” Felina’s head fell back upon the bighorner hide, squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head as though to exorcise the very memory from her mind. “There was—a smoke grenade, and then—this awful roar; I’ve heard a lot of creatures roar, but nothing like this—and from out of the smoke came that—that _thing!_ Oh god, it was hideous!”

 She broke off with a moan of horror, her wiry frame twisting upon the hide as though trying to escape it still.

“It’s—it’s alright,” Graham tried to soothe her, laying a gentle but firm hand upon her shoulder, trying to keep her from reopening the wound in her side. Had a deathclaw found its way into Zion? “You’re safe now. Nothing can hurt you here.”

It took several moments, but at last Felina stilled, pain and exhaustion overriding her fearful memories. Joshua set to work dressing her wounds, keeping up a running commentary of his actions to distract her as he applied poultice and bandages. A sizable chunk of her pant leg had to be sacrificed, but Joshua assured her that it could be patched. All the while, she remained motionless save for the odd quiver of spent muscles. Curiosity and worry gnawed at Graham’s mind, but he forced himself to forget about her words for now and focus on the task at hand.

“There,” He said at length as he tied off the bandages on her forearm. His hands were smeared with poultice and blood, and he tried not to think about the risk of infection, both to his wounds and hers. “All that’s left to do is pray.”

“Thank you,” Felina managed, her voice scarcely above a whisper. She blinked, still half-dazed, her brow furrowing as she tried to focus on his face. “…who did you say you were?”

The Burned Man dabbed a little residual sweat from her brow with a damp cloth as he replied, “My name is Joshua Graham. The one who brought you here is Follows-Chalk.”

“Oh, you’re the Burned Man Jed was talking about,” Felina murmured, almost asleep even as she spoke. “Neat.”

Graham gave a soft chuckle, pulling a ragged blanket over her frail form. As her breathing deepened into an exhausted slumber that bordered on unconsciousness, the Burned Man washed the blood from his hands and retired to his workbench, where a stack of uninspected .45’s sat forgotten. Before allowing himself to fall into methodical routine, Graham clasped his hands before him, and prayed.

“Lord, I ask that you would lay your hand on this woman, a stranger in our land, and hasten her healing…”

-ooo-

The Three Marys were a beautiful sight. Red rock cliffs etched with layered strata stretched high above the river that carved its way haphazardly through the canyon. The almost-claustrophobic closeness, although a wonder to behold, gave one the inexplicable feeling of being watched, of unseen eyes peering over the edges and from behind rocky outcrops. Such feelings were not without merit—clay-smeared forms clung like squirrels to almost invisible ledges, perfectly still save for their eyes, which roved ceaselessly as painted hands gripped camouflaged submachine guns, ready to fire at the first sign of hostile movement. The White Legs occupied the canyon.

To an observer, Salt-Upon-Wounds seemed almost half-asleep. He sat upon a section of a long-dead tree that had not yet succumbed to rot as it lay upon the riverbank, the pale wood matching his pale skin. Black-painted lids hung low over blue-grey eyes, which flickered at every movement. Dreadlocked hair framed his crimson-dyed face, the braids knotted in ignorance, a mockery-honor of another. Salt-Upon-Wounds was Utah’s most ruthless warlord, and none who doubted did so for long. At his side knelt a dark-skinned woman with even darker eyes. She was clearly no White Leg, but whatever tribe she had come from was no doubt long-assimilated by the forces of the Legion.

Then ripples disturbed the winding river, and the sentries averted their eyes, dust raining from their perches as they trembled in place, fighting the urge to flee. Knuckles turned white upon weapons, breath hitching as each hoped he would remain unnoticed. For Zion’s Bane approached.

Its massive steps sent small tidal waves before it, not even seeming to feel the resistance of the water that would have reached the knees of any man. Steam hissed and curled from where the water boiled briefly on contact with the thing, momentarily extinguishing the flames that ever leapt across its colossal form. It took no heed to the sentries above, its dreadful, burning gaze not even sparing them a glance as it continued forward like a moving mountain, unstoppable, inevitable. The thick, white datura flowers that bloomed in clumps along the narrow banks seemed to wilt, hiding their petaled faces from the thing as it passed.

If Salt-Upon-Wounds himself trembled before the beast, he did not show it. He merely gave his power fist an experimental flex as Zion’s Bane halted before the White Legs’ chief. The woman at his side gave no reaction to the thing, save perhaps a slight quickening of breath.

Salt-Upon-Wounds regarded his champion with something like smug pride. “Destroyed the caravan, then?”

The beast replied. It used no language, and only the one to which it spoke could hear it, but all those nearby shuddered even so.

“Good.” The tribal nodded. His keen gaze noted the tattooed figures of the rest of the raiding party splashing into view, having kept a respectable distance behind the flaming monstrosity. “Go your own way for now. Wait for the call. Don’t stray too far though—know what’ll happen if you do.”

Zion’s Bane gave no reaction at the sneer in its master’s voice. It simply passed out of sight and presence, leaving only a few bubbles to dissolve in the cooling shallows where it had stood.

“One step closer to the remnants of New Canaan-That-Was,” Salt-Upon-Wounds murmured, so low that only the woman beside him could hear. “One step closer to becoming Many.”

The tribal chief cast a scathing glance at the rest of the party then, who had visibly relaxed as soon as Zion’s Bane had departed. “Seven of you went out, only three returned. Did a simple caravan prove too much for even the power of the storm-drums?”

“Not the entire caravan,” One tribal spoke up, jabbing his spearpoint in the sandy shallows to rid the blood from its tip. “Just one woman! Her storm-drum could only be used twice at once, but such devastation came from its thunder! Took down four before the sight of Caesar’s gift stole her sense, but we brought her down.”

“Should have expected caravan guards,” Salt-Upon-Wounds spat venomously, “Lucky I don’t send you to join her in whatever afterlife awaits the profligates. Go, now, and thank the gods that I am in a good mood today.”

The three saluted with their weapons, scurrying away before their temperamental chief could change his mind.


	3. Keep On the Sunny Side

When Felina swam slowly up from pain-riddled, nightmare-filled dreams, the cave was dark save for a few dying embers in the firepit. Trying to sit up sent streaks of white-hot pain shooting through her torso, and she fell back with a curse. More careful this time, she took stock of her limbs, trying to figure out what she could move while the pain in her side settled back to a dull throb. Probing the place with tentative fingers, Felina discovered a mass of bandages over the wound, which prickled like needles where it had been cauterized. She could scarcely remember being patched up by the mysterious Burned Man; everything after the ambush was just one long, screaming agony that was only just beginning to wane.

Still fuzzy-headed, Felina tried to recall the details of the attack. Jed had just finished a grandiose introduction to Zion as they stood at the base of the cliffs, and they were just beginning the descent into the valley. Then a small object had come flying out of nowhere, skittering into the midst of the caravan and spewing clouds of sweet-smelling smoke in every direction. Felina remembered spotting a number of painted figures bounding down the rocks armed with both melee weapons and firearms, she had responded in kind. Four had been sent sprawling as lifeless ragdolls by blasts from her shotgun before even reaching the caravan, and she remembered thinking that maybe they would get out unscathed. Then—

Then.

Felina squeezed her eyes shut, clamping her good hand to her head and shaking it vigorously. Such a thing as had come out of that smoke simply _could not_ exist. She remembered screaming, but her voice had been drowned in the roar of that creature. She had fallen back from its flames, unloading shell after shell into it, but it would not be touched. She could only watch, her mouth open in a scream that may or may not have been silent, as it slaughtered the caravan, her friends, down to the last brahmin.

Then it had turned its dreadful gaze on her.

Then, it had _spoken._

The spear that had driven into her side then had seemed almost a blessing, accompanied by a hard kick to the back that had sent her sprawling in the dirt at the thing’s feet. Her gaze clouding in agony, she did not dare look up, move, or even breathe, paralyzed with terror as darkness pulled at her senses. Awash with burning pain and horror, her last thought had been that it would bring its massive foot stamping down upon her head and crush it, helmet and all.

But it had not.

This thought alone was almost more horrible. It was still out there somewhere, waiting. Perhaps it was here even now, lurking in the shadows of this darkened cave. Perhaps—

Her eyes flew open to scan the shadows, and instead saw two points of blue looming over her. Felina screamed, forgetting the wound in her arm as her hands flew up in defense. The points recoiled in surprise for an instant, before Felina felt her wrists seized in a vicelike grip, accompanied by a rasping, slightly muffled voice snarling:

“Felina, calm down! I’m not going to hurt you! Be still!”

Trying to wrench her arms free only yielded a tighter grip, and more pain shooting through her wounds. At last Felina froze, her chest heaving, eyes wide and wild as she stared at the shadowy figure bending over her.

“Promise not to hit me if I let you go?” He asked, his voice gentler this time.

Felina regarded his shadowed face like a deer in headlights, but she managed a shaky nod.

“It seems you don’t remember much from your arrival,” The man went on, releasing her wrists. “I’m not surprised; you were barely conscious at best. We’ve already been introduced—I am Joshua Graham. As I recall, you thought me ‘neat.’”

“I, uh—” Felina’s voice cracked as she spoke, and she realized her throat was dry as a bone. “I’m—thirsty.”

“I am sure,” Graham said, rising from his place at her side and moving to stoke the dying coals. He was back in a moment with a canteen of water, as well as a lamp, casting a yellow glow over them both. Sliding an arm under Felina’s shoulders, he lifted her up enough to hold the canteen to her lips. Gripping it with her good hand, she gulped greedily at the tepid, metallic-tasting water, not caring how much spilled over her chin and down her neck as well. She emptied the canteen before coming up for air, and Graham laid her back down.

Several thousand questions swirled like dust devils in Felina’s mind as she studied his bandage-wrapped face, but she decided on what seemed the simplest. “How long was I out?”

“A day and a night,” Graham replied, settling cross-legged beside the bighorner hide. “It is almost dawn of the second day now. I was just about to go out on patrol when I heard you. You seemed to be under a great deal of stress, but I will not ask the cause just yet. What brings a courier so far from the Mojave?”

“I—” Felina began, then paused, her brow furrowing. “How did you know I’m a courier?”

“I saw the Mojave Express patch on the inside of your pack,” Graham explained. “I’ve been expecting a courier for some time now, but I suppose he wouldn’t have come with a caravan.”

“The caravan.” Felina closed her eyes against the sudden tears that stung them. “I guess I didn’t realize how close I’d become to them. Jed, Stella, even that asshole Ricky…they’re all gone now, aren’t they? God, I should have died with them!”

“Stop that,” Graham growled with unexpected ferocity, startling Felina. “Stop that way of thinking this instant. It is counter-productive and silly. The Lord saved you for a purpose, Courier. You survived the journey from the Mojave, you survived the White Legs, you survived whatever it was that you will not speak of for a reason. God is not done with you yet.”

The Burned Man saw the confusion that bordered fear on her face then, and sighed as he rubbed his bandaged-wrapped face with an equally bandage-wrapped hand in self-reprimand. “…Forgive me. I know what it’s like to be a survivor, the guilt, the what-ifs, the questions. All we can do is lean on the Lord, and trust that his path shall open for us, in its own time.”

Felina allowed herself to relax again, studying him with evident curiosity. “The Legion slaves talk about you like you’re some kind of ghost,” She ventured. “I’ve heard them whisper of the unkillable Burned Man, the one who haunts the Fort on moonless nights, the only being dead or alive that Caesar truly fears.”

“Ah, well,” Graham was unable to resist a chuckle at this. “If such hauntings do occur, no one thought to inform me.”

Then his gaze turned serious once more, narrowing slightly in that manner of one reserving judgement, if only momentarily. “But, tell me, what sort of courier is affiliated with the Legion enough to know the rumors of slaves, yet wanders far from the Mojave wearing NCR armor?”

Felina blushed, looking away from the intensity of his eyes. “Well, _affiliated_ might be too strong a word. I prefer _infiltrated.”_

Graham’s head gave an almost imperceptible tilt. “You have me intrigued. Please, do elaborate.”

“Due to an…unfortunate encounter,” Felina began, unconsciously touching the bullet scars on her brow, “I lost most of my memories, including who’s who in the Mojave. Long story short, I’ve infiltrated them to see what I think about them.”

“And?”

“They’re a bunch of assholes.”

The Burned Man exhaled in the barest hint of amusement. “An apt, if somewhat crude conclusion.”

“Hoi, Joshua, what is taking so long?”

Felina craned her neck towards the sound of the new voice, and saw the tattoo-faced tribal she vaguely remembered from her arrival standing in the cave entrance. While she and Graham had been talking, she noticed, the grey light of dawn had begun to seep into the canyon.

“You may have to go on without me,” Joshua told the tribal, “Our guest has awakened.”

“What! I think I will stay now!”

“Now, hold on just a—” Graham’s words were stern, but Felina thought she detected a smile in his voice as the enthusiastic tribal hurried over to them. “You need the experience, and Felina will still be here when you get back. Off you go.”

The tribal pouted, looking very much like a denied puppy, but at last he relented. “Alright! Filly-na, do not go anywhere!”

“You could have gone with them,” Felina told Graham as the tattooed man vanished back into the breaking dawn. “Don’t let me keep you from your routine.”

The Burned Man glanced at her. He had moved back over to the firepit and was filling an iron kettle with water. “They’ll be fine without me. Besides, if I leave, you’ll probably try to get up or something equally as foolish, and those bandages need changing anyway.”

Felina gave the kettle a suspicious eye as Graham hung it over the flames. “It won’t involve any hot objects this time, will it?”

“Fortunately, no,” Graham replied, not pausing in his dig through a supply crate. “The water is just to boil the old bandages, so we can use them again later.”

“You guys really rough it out here, don’t you?” The Courier said in slight awe. “I mean, more than the usual. You hunt all your meals and everything?”

“Correct.” The Burned Man returned to his place at her side and bent her knee to begin undoing the knotted bandage on her leg. “You would not guess how many different ways there are to prepare bighorner meat.”

Felina winced as the bandage, having stuck to the wound, pulled at the sensitive flesh. But Graham, blue eyes narrowed in concentration, continued, ignoring the hitches in her breath until finally the fabric strips were freed, stiff with dried poultice and blood. The bullet wound beneath was puckered around the edges, and pulsed with heat, but there seemed to be no sign of infection.

“You’ll have to forgive me for using the last of your stimpaks on you while you were out,” Graham said, pausing in his ministrations to measure amounts of various exotic flora into a mortar and pestle. “I didn’t know the extent of the internal damage, and while such medicine is rare here, I did not want to take risks saving them.”

“Yeah, no, that’s fine,” Felina assured him, finding herself strangely fascinated by the movements of his bandage-wrapped hands busily working the pestle. He cut an odd sight in his bulletproof vest and worn jeans, wrapped head to toe in bandages, and she wondered what he had looked like before his injuries.

At length, the Burned Man laid aside the pestle and scooped out some of the resulting paste on his fingers. “This will sting a little, but just hold still.”

“Huh? _Ow!”_

“Hold _still!”_

Graham grabbed Felina’s knee with his free hand to keep it steady while he applied the poultice, again ignoring her grimaces. He then bound the wound with a swiftness that spoke of countless practices, covering most of the square-shaped hole in her pant leg in the process.

“You said infiltrated the Legion,” Graham recalled, washing poultice from his hands and flicking the used bandages deftly into the now-boiling kettle over the fire. “How is Caesar faring these days?”

“He’s a condescending prick,” Felina replied with a scowl, touching her freshly-bound wound. The pain was beginning to recede to a dull throb once more. “I’ve only talked to him once or twice; he barely even knows I exist. His dog-headed yes man on the other hand, he is very much aware of my existence, and not in a good way.”

“Ah, yes, Vulpes.” Graham carefully lifted Felina’s arm to begin unwinding the bandages on it. “I helped train him, you know. Out of his _contubernia,_ a group of eight legionaries, he was the only one who did not collapse from exhaustion during my training regimen. This when he was at the ripe old age of twelve.”

 _“Twelve?”_ Felina laughed, but immediately regretted it as pain lanced through her side. “God, I can’t imagine someone like Vulpes ever being a cute little kid. He’s done nothing but aggravate me from the moment we met in the Tops casino, he thinks he’s _so_ smooth—ah!”

What would likely have been a very impressive rant was broken off with a yelp as Graham freed the bandages with a sharp tug and tossed them into the pot with their brethren, leaving the wound beneath to throb as the air touched it.

“Vulpes in a casino?” Graham arched an eyebrow at the mental image, lifting Felina’s arm by the elbow and wrist with surprising delicacy. “I take it he was dressed somewhat less conspicuously than what I remember.”

“Oh, certainly.” Felina suddenly realized how close his face was to hers. She turned her head away, hoping the light was dim enough to hide the rosy hue that suffused her cheeks, and allowed memories to take her. “What a day that was…”

* * *

 

“Hey, hey, baby-doll, how’s my favorite girl? Got a kiss for me?”

Felina smiled ruby-painted lips at Swank, sashaying up to the smartly-clad Chairman. Her voluminous skirts swirled about her ankles as she put her hands on her hips, shaking her head at him. “Keep dreaming, Swanky. You’re a devil and a doll, but you know I don’t give out kisses to just anybody.”

“Aw, don’t be that way,” Swank gave an easy smile, his head tilted slightly in a manner that matched the rest of his relaxed posture. “You vanish for three months without a trace, then show up out of the wastes rockin’ a couple o’ new jewels on your crown and not even a kiss for your old pal Swank?”

“A little kick in the head never kept me down for long.” Felina touched the starburst-shaped scars on her brow, then fluttered her eyelashes at him. “But, since you always knew how to charm a gal, I guess I can spare a peck this once.”

She stood on her toes and kissed the Chairman’s cheek, leaving a smudge of lipstick behind. “Do me a favor and don’t tell Benny I’m back, will you?”

Swank, to his credit, kept his composure, even if his expression turned a little dreamier. “You’re one ring-a-ding dame, you know that? Now get out there and knock ‘em dead.”

Felina hurried to her place behind the curtain, smoothing her skirts as Tommy Torini’s familiar drawl rang through the Aces Theater.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome to the finest entertainment in Vegas! Tonight’s act is a rare visitor, one whose work carries her far and wide across the wastes, but she always manages to spare an evening or two for her friends here at the Tops. Ladies and gents, just blown into town on the west Texas wind, may I present Flaming Felina, the girl that I love!”

The curtains had scarcely cleared her path and Felina was already moving, applause nearly drowning the lively music. Her long skirts flared like brightly-colored butterfly wings as she whirled across the stage, spotting her turns on a familiar white-checkered suit conversing in the back of the room. He hadn’t even noticed her, she thought with a flash of irritation, almost missing a step as she watched him exit the theater and vanish from sight. Well, at least Swank had kept his word.

Finally, she spun to a stop with the music, arms outspread to display the colors of her skirts, her face wreathed in smiles. Though flushed with exertion, there was a spring in her step as the curtains drew to thunderous applause and she hurried backstage. It was good to be back.

Felina’s dressing room wasn’t much; a wardrobe to hold her gear and the one spare dress the casino provided, a vanity, and a screen were all it contained, all in various states of wear and tear. But to her, it was like a second home, smell of dust and all.

She fell into the chair at her vanity and was just about to begin pulling pins from her intricate hairdo when she saw him in the mirror, lurking in the corner.

 In a flash, Felina unsheathed the knife strapped to her thigh beneath her skirts and lunged, slamming the intruder back against the wardrobe and holding the blade to his throat.

“Who are you?” Felina demanded, pressing him back into the carved wood. “What do you want?”

The man just smiled, thin lips curving beneath eyes like chips of crystal. Like most patrons of the Tops, he was smartly-dressed, wearing a coffee-colored suit and black bowtie. His matching fedora had been knocked off his head, revealing a shock of blonde hair that looked even paler against his suntanned complexion. The contours of his suit mostly hid his physique, but Felina could feel the muscle beneath her grip. Much like her, he was lean and wiry, and she suddenly got the impression that he could overpower her if he wanted to, but was humoring her for reasons yet unknown.

When he finally spoke, his voice was silky smooth, and reminded Felina of the two-headed rattlesnakes she sometimes encountered in the wastes, deceptively calm but filled with hidden venom. Whoever he was, he was dangerous, and a stone-cold killer.

“My, my,” He said with a brisk click of his tongue, _“Weapons_ in the casino? I hadn’t taken you for quite so naughty a girl, but it seems I was mistaken.”

“Can’t be too careful,” Felina growled, trying to keep her voice from wavering and pressing her knife harder against his throat. To her dismay, his smile did not waver. “You never know what degenerates might come creeping into a lady’s dressing room, and the Chairmen can’t have everything they want.”

“True,” The man agreed, “Which means that two can play at your little game.”

Felina looked down just in time to see him flick a long skinning knife from his sleeve into his palm with terrifying deftness. A heartbeat later, the tip rested, warm with his body heat, against the pale of her throat.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” The man said, still smiling his horrible smile. “I am Vulpes Inculta of Caesar’s Legion, the eyes of whom are upon you. Hearken to them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware this chapter is pretty exposition-heavy, but since Felina is bedridden, I thought it was a good time to introduce her background, as well as some ideas and themes that will become relevant later.
> 
> Also, if anyone's curious, Felina's dancing style is a mixture of baile folklórico and contemporary ballet, which I thought would be a fun combination given all the colorful skirts folklórico dancers wear.
> 
> Side note: I know I went with the playing card description of Vulpes, but tbh if I have to pick between Adam Sandler and (younger) Paul Bettany, I think I like Paul Bettany a little bit more.


	4. Come and Go with Me

_“Allow me to introduce myself,” The man said, still smiling his horrible smile. “I am Vulpes Inculta of Caesar’s Legion, the eyes of whom are upon you. Hearken to them.”_

For several long moments, the two stood at a stalemate. Felina could not make herself meet that frigid gaze for more than a couple seconds at a time, and Vulpes’ stare never wavered, nor did his smile.

Finally, Felina slowly withdrew her knife from his neck, but kept it ready in her fist nonetheless. A shiver went down her spine as Vulpes did likewise, but not without allowing the tip of his blade to slide across the hollow of her throat.

“You say you’re from the Legion?” Felina ventured, placing a comfortable three feet between herself and Vulpes. “What does the Legion want with a casino dancer?”

“Oh, you needn’t play coy with me, _puella,”_ Vulpes chided, assuming a relaxed position leaning against the wardrobe, one hand in his pants pocket, the other flipping his skinning knife with far too much deftness for Felina’s comfort. “As alluring as your dances are, we both know you’re far more than that, _Courier.”_

Felina said nothing, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Your exploits, both advantageous and detrimental to the Legion, have not gone unnoticed. At last, mighty Caesar has sought you out regarding a rather important delivery to Mr. House.”

Vulpes saw the change in her eyes at these words, and his smile grew even wider. Then his keen gaze noted the shivering of her skirts about her ankles. “Oh, how rude of me to keep you standing after you’ve just performed. You must be exhausted. Please, do sit down.”

Felina narrowed her eyes. He had something in his pocket; she could see his fingers wrapping around it. But she couldn’t figure out what. “I’ll stand, thanks.”

“I said,” The spinning knife halted, its blade pointed directly at her heart. _“Sit.”_

Gripping her knife hilt so tightly that her knuckles turned white, Felina did as she was told, taking a seat at the vanity and watching Vulpes in the mirror. He stuck his knife into his belt, leaving his hands free as he drew up behind her. His nearness set the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

“My Lord Caesar requires audience with you,” Vulpes went on, and drew from his pocket what appeared to be a large coin strung onto a leather cord. “To help ensure your compliance, he has bestowed upon you the gift of his Mark. Any and all crimes you may have perpetrated against the Legion are hereby forgiven. He awaits you at Fortification Hill.”

Felina swallowed, trying desperately to keep her expression level as Vulpes looped the cord about her neck and tied it off as though it was a string of pearls. The coin rested heavy and cold against her breastbone.

“What if I don’t want to meet your Caesar?” She asked, loathing how high her voice sounded.

“Whether you wish to or not is irrelevant,” Vulpes replied. “You will either face Caesar on your own two feet with as much dignity as a woman profligate can muster, or you will be flung before him like a dog after I have dragged you across the Mojave by your hair.”

 His smile turned a little scornful. “And I would _hate_ to bruise such a delicate creature as you.”

Felina’s rebellious side wanted to show him just how delicate she was by driving the heel of her boot into his smiling face, but the rational side of her told her it would only end badly, and not for him.

Before she could decide however, a knock sounded on the dressing room door, accompanied by Swank’s voice.

“Doin’ alright in there, doll? I heard a commotion. Everything in the groove?”

“Oh, how rude,” Vulpes purred, his voice dropping so that only Felina could hear. “Our visit was only just beginning.”

Desperate for backup, Felina only just remembered to sheathe her knife before darting past Vulpes to the door, flinging it open to reveal a concerned Swank.

Laid-back as he was, the Chairman was no fool. One look at Vulpes and his posture immediately shifted, turning slightly to hide the movement of his hand as it darted toward his waistband, where Felina knew he kept a loaded 9mm. But he did not draw just yet, instead looking to the woman before him. “Everything alright? Who’s this?”

“Everything’s fine,” Felina lied, forcing a smile. She glanced back at Vulpes, hoping his knife was still stuck into his belt and fully visible to the Chairman, but the blade had vanished into his sleeve once more. “Just an admirer. He was just leaving—isn’t that right, Mr. Wool-piss?”

To her satisfaction, Vulpes’ smile grew a little tighter at her deliberate butchery of his name. But he merely swept his hat off the floor, dusting it off, and approached her.

“I look forward to our next meeting,” He told her, giving her arm a squeeze that was far harder than necessary. “Don’t keep me waiting. Oh, and bring your dancing shoes.”

With that, he nodded at Swank and swept past the Chairman, vanishing down the hall like smoke on the wind.

Swank exhaled, his stance relaxing like a drawn bowstring. “Damn, doll, where’d you find a slimeball like that?”

“I didn’t,” Felina scowled. “He found me.”

Before the Chairman could ask too many questions, she quickly composed herself, flashing him a bright, false smile. “Too bad Benny missed out on my return to the Tops, eh? Did you happen to see where he went? I owe him a couple of crown jewels.”

* * *

 

“And that’s the story of how I ended up meeting the two biggest assholes in the entire Moja— _ow!”_

Felina bit back a curse as Joshua tugged free the bandages encasing her side, sending fresh claws of pain digging into the wound.

“Sounds like an interesting encounter,” was the Burned Man’s mild comment, tossing the mass of cloth, caked with blood and poultice, into the boiling kettle. The wound beneath was an ugly sight, pus-filled blisters and dead skin surrounding the area of cauterization.

“Eugh,” Felina grimaced, lifting her head to see the place. “No wonder it hurts so bad.”

She resisted the urge to ask Graham if he had looked that way at some point. How much pain he had been in, she could not imagine. He probably couldn’t even move without excruciating agony.

“I expect you’ll be bedridden for at least a week,” Graham determined as he applied poultice to the wound. It stung on contact, but the cool paste was a blessed relief to the burned skin. “At least long enough for the blisters to burst and the dead skin to fall away.”

Felina groaned internally. She had to be stuck in this stuffy cave doing nothing for a whole _week?_ It seemed she’d survived the White Legs only to die of boredom.

“Joshua, I’m back!”

The voice, accompanied by the patter of bare feet on dirt, signaled the return of the patrol, and the tribal from earlier.

“Ah, yes,” Graham finished coating Felina’s side in paste and laid aside the mortar. “Chalk, you’re just in time. Help me sit up our guest so I can finish with these bandages. And please, try not to overwhelm her with questions just yet.”

“Right!” The tattooed tribal Follows-Chalk jogged over to the bighorner hide, taking Felina under the armpits and helping her sit up. Spots danced before her vision as blood rushed to her head.

“This is Follows-Chalk,” Graham reminded her, threading bandage under her arms and around her torso. Felina used her good hand to hold her shirt out of the way while he worked. “He came across the remains of your caravan soon after the ambush and found you as the only survivor.”

Mention of the attack brought back unwanted memories of that _creature_ from out of the smoke, sending a shudder down Felina’s spine. She looked back at Chalk, who had plopped down cross-legged beside the bighorner hide and was watching her with wide, curious eyes. “You didn’t see anything…unusual, did you?” She asked him.

Chalk frowned. “How do you mean?”

Felina hesitated, reluctant to continue, so Joshua answered for her. “It seems we may have an answer for our missing scouts situation.”

At Felina’s look of confusion, he elaborated. “Lately, scouts who go out alone have ended up missing. I’ve forbidden the Dead Horses from going out without backup, and Daniel has done the same with the Sorrows tribe across the valley. We haven’t actually known what is taking them however, as no bodies are ever found, but this caravan ambush may shed some light.”

The Burned Man’s voice grew softer then, sadder. “Caesar has gone to great lengths to see me dead. So many lives he has twisted, trampled, all collateral damage in his never-ending quest to finish what he started. This is only the newest link in the chain of suffering.”

“Hey, it’s not your fault,” Felina tried to reassure him, but the words sounded hollow even to her, and she shivered as Graham’s gaze fixed on hers, burning with cold fire.

“Isn’t it?” He countered, but the anger in his voice was weary. “He tracked me to New Canaan, and his hounds, the White Legs, destroyed it, salting the earth so that nothing may grow there again. The Tar Walkers and the Crazy Horns, both peaceful tribes, met a similar fate. Now the Dead Horses and the Sorrows face the same, all caught up in Caesar’s mad quest for my death. It is nothing if not my fault.”

He sighed then, and the lamplight flickering on his form made him look older, worn down. Felina could not help but feel a surge of pity for him. How much had he lost?

“Chalk, make sure she doesn’t try to get up,” He said then, tying off the bandages before gathering up the supplies and rising from his spot. “I’m going out. I shall see you both tonight.”

Felina wanted to ask where he was going, but something in his posture warned her not to. Instead, she only watched as he took two boxes of ammo from his workbench and strode from the cave, eyes narrowed with purpose.

“Where’s he off to?” Felina wondered aloud once he was gone, “Didn’t he just say nobody is supposed to go out alone?”

Chalk’s face mirrored her own, worry and confusion furrowing his normally bright expression, but it was resigned, as though he had seen such an occurrence before.

“Occasionally,” he said, “Joshua goes out by himself, sometimes for a day or more, taking only his gun. He does not speak of these times, but when he returns, there is blood on his weapon, and on his hands. When I ask him about it, he only says he was ‘doing the Lord’s work.’”

The tribal’s voice grew quieter, almost fearful. “It is then that I wonder if the Malpais Legate is truly dead.”

* * *

 

Nights in Zion were cold. There were few clouds to contain the heat escaping off the sun-warmed rocks, leaving the rivers to chill the canyon, cold reaching its long fingers into every nook and cranny.

The Three Marys was no exception. The White Legs bundled themselves in heavy bighorner hides, some with worn blankets pilfered from Old World buildings as they gathered like moths around campfires, preferring the warmth of the fireside to the frigid, precariously-pitched tents scattered here and there along the riverbank.

At the back of the dead-end canyon, there sat a tent constructed with somewhat better craftsmanship, even if it was far from weatherproof. Within lay Salt-Upon-Wounds upon a scavenged folding cot, his power fist close at hand. He did not stir as a wind disturbed the tent flap, but the dark-skinned woman beside him did.

**Kore.**

The woman blinked, sleep clouding her vision, and saw Zion’s Bane standing beside the cot.

She sat up at once, unwinding Salt-Upon-Wounds’ arms from about her, careful not to disturb him even as every muscle in her body tensed with alertness. The thing must have hidden itself from him, she thought, for nothing could ignore its unhindered presence.

 **Kore,** Zion’s Bane said again, and the woman shuddered at its voice. **Anticlea Kore.** **That is your name?**

“It is the name I was given,” Kore replied, keeping her voice low as she rose from bed and moved to the tent flap, looking out over the White Legs’ camp. Zion’s Bane left no track in the dirt as it drew up beside her, inevitable as doom. She felt the heat from its body, but it did not warm her.

 **Do I have a name?** It asked.

“Suppose so.” Kore looked over at the thing and felt an odd sensation in her breast, something she had not felt in many long years. “Don’t know it if you do.”

The eyes of Zion’s Bane were fire and ice at once. It looked back at the pale form of the sleeping tribal, who lay yet undisturbed. **Do you hate him?**

Kore was silent, and for several moments the only noise was wind. She thought back to how many times she had stood over his sleeping form, a knife in her hand, ready to plunge it into his neck and avenge countless innocents. Yet she had never brought the blade down, even in her most fervent hatred.

Then she said, “I do not hate him. Did once, before I knew the way of him. But I do not hate him.”

Zion’s Bane looked at Kore for several long moments, its thoughts indiscernable, and she fought the urge to fidget under its stare.

 **You do not hate him,** it echoed, and seemed almost to wonder at her words, if such a thing as itself were capable of wondering. For it knew they were true.

“Kore?”

The dark-skinned woman turned back to see Salt-Upon-Wounds. He had propped himself on one elbow and was regarding her through a sleep-clouded gaze. Kore glanced over, but Zion’s Bane, which to his eyes should have been far too large to fit into the tent, had hidden itself from both their sights. Kore could feel its presence beside her still.

“Come back to bed, beloved,” said Salt-Upon-Wounds, choosing to ignore the scarcely-perceivable flicker beside her, like moonlight glancing off a sheet of ice. “It is cold.”

Zion’s Bane watched as Kore, wordless, returned to the tribal’s embrace. It then departed on silent feet, and the camp released the breath it had not realized was held as the creature left the Three Marys to range greater Zion.


	5. I'll See You All This Coming Fall

Felina extended her leg, leaning back on her good arm to give the injured limb an experimental flex. It ached, but not so much that any movement was agonizing still. The same was true for her arm. Her side was still in rough shape, but the wounds both front and back had sealed enough that the mere act of sitting up did not reopen them.

The Courier looked across the cave to where the sleeping bulk of Joshua lay, his head pillowed upon his folded vest. Today was the first day she had woken up before him, and after three days of being confined to the cave, she wasn’t sure she could bear the early-morning silence any longer.

Keeping an eye on the figure of the Burned Man, Felina carefully scooted over to where her NCR gear sat neatly folded near the head of the bighorner hide that had been her bed since her arrival. Her pistol and knife sat atop the bundle, her shotgun leaning against the cave wall.

Gripping the barrel of the sturdy shotgun with her good left hand, Felina gritted her teeth and, using her uninjured right leg as leverage, managed to maneuver herself into a kneeling position. Her side throbbed, though she had tried to exert as little effort on her abdominal muscles as possible. Step one complete.

Her knuckles turned white upon the gun barrel, a sheen of sweat appearing on her brow as she swiftly braced the foot of her good leg against the floor, though she was unable to keep her weight from settling on the wounded one for an instant, sending streaks of pain through her thigh. But now, all her weight was concentrated on one leg and one arm. It would have to do.

Biting her lip to keep a grunt of exertion from escaping and waking Joshua, Felina gripped her support and heaved for all she was worth. Tendons stood out on her neck, and the shotgun trembled under her sweat-slicked palm, but after what seemed an eternity, her leg was straight beneath her. For the first time since entering Zion, she was upright.

Her surge of elation lasted only a moment before her vision fogged, sending her staggering into the cave wall with a gasp of pain as her blood circulation rebalanced itself. She leaned against the uneven stone, her breath shuddering as she waited for the pain to recede back to a dull throb.

When she could see clearly again, her gaze darted to Joshua, but he had not stirred, and the dying embers revealed no points of blue in their weak light. Good.

Using her shotgun like a cane and cradling her bad arm to herself, Felina edged a tentative step forward. Her wounded leg ached as weight was applied to it, but if she used her shotgun as a third leg, she could keep the limb from buckling.

Slowly, taking great care, the Courier hobbled her way across the cave, gaining confidence with each successful step. Her sights were set on the pale light of dawn creeping through the cave entrance, and in her determination, she failed to notice Joshua watching her through a slit of one blue eye.

The chill of the morning sent goosebumps racing down Felina’s arms, and she shivered, but decided it would be too much hassle to go back for her trench coat. Instead she pressed onward, the light of dawn turning the highest peaks yellow above. The Dead Horses camp was still and quiet, with the only other signs of life being a couple sentries high on the surrounding rocks. It was beautiful, she realized, taking in the majestic peaks and sweeping strata. How lucky the tribe was to live in such a place.

Turning her gaze downward once more, Felina extended her bad leg before her, pointing her toes as though preparing to execute a dance move. She could feel the muscles trembling from lack of use, and the healing wound ached, but she held the position and counted to ten before relaxing it. Now came the hard part.

Steeling her nerves, she slowly, carefully settled her weight upon the wounded leg. The limb almost buckled under the strain, but with the extra support of the shotgun, it held. Breathing in deep, slow breaths against the pain, Felina stretched her good leg before her, pointing her toes, and began counting to ten.

“It’s good that you’re stretching. The last thing a dancer needs is stiff muscles—”

The unexpected voice was a rock thrown into the glass of Felina’s concentration. Her leg buckled, sending her to the ground, and she cried out as red-hot barbs of pain stabbed into her leg and side. For several moments, she could only gasp, staring at the earth as she waited for the agony to subside. It was only after her vision cleared that she noticed the person crouched beside her and registered the warm hand upon her shoulder.

“Forgive me,” Joshua’s gruff voice was gentle. “I did not mean to startle you. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, sure,” Felina managed, trying to sound optimistic as she struggled to pull herself upright once more. “Never better. Just a little kick in the leg…and side, and arm.”

Graham chuckled, helping her over to a firepit and sitting her down on one of the logs surrounding it. “I admire your efforts, though I would have advised against trying to stand up for at least another day.”

“I know, that’s why I tried it when you were asleep,” Felina replied, then corrected herself, “When I _thought_ you were asleep.”

She stretched her leg out again, rolling her foot to test the muscle reaction. “So, what’s the situation with all these tribes? The Dead Horses, the White Legs, and the…Sorrows, you said?”

“Yes,” Graham replied, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers thoughtfully. “The Sorrows are native to Zion, but the Dead Horses migrated here from up the Colorado to avoid assimilation into the Legion.

“The White Legs actively seek to join the Legion, why I know not, but I suspect it’s due to their lack of self-sufficiency. In the Legion, they would have all their needs met in exchange for what they do best, which is brutally destroying any and all adversaries.

“As part of their petition to Caesar, they burned New Canaan, trying to get at me, but I escaped. Now they’ve followed us here, and in dragging the local Sorrows into this fight, my fellow New Canaanite Daniel and I face a dilemma: lead the peaceful Sorrows out of the valley to safety, or rally them and the Dead Horses to destroy the White Legs completely. They cannot take both tribes, but the Sorrows know nothing of war, and Daniel does not wish to take such a vital part of their culture from them.”

The Burned Man shook his head then, frustration evident in his voice. “We’ve been at a stalemate for months, and Salt-Upon-Wounds won’t wait forever. But I feel the massacre of your caravan may have been the tipping point.”

“Salt-Upon-Wounds?” Felina echoed, “Funny name. He’s the leader of the White Legs, I take it?”

“Yes,” Graham replied, and his laced fingers tightened upon themselves. “He is infamous throughout Utah for his prowess. When his tribe conquers an area, they spread salt on the earth so that nothing can grow there. He is ruthless. The Lord instructs us to pray for those who persecute us, but I sometimes wonder if he included men like Salt-Upon-Wounds in that command.”

Felina didn’t know how to respond to that, but Joshua seemed not to expect her to, for he went on: “Once you’re sufficiently healed, I want to take you to meet Daniel, let him know what’s happened. And warn him of…whatever it was you saw during the caravan attack.”

The Burned Man’s keen gaze noted the shiver that passed through her at the mention, but whether It was from cold or fear, he could not say. Perhaps both. Was what she had seen truly so terrible?

“I don’t suppose you’d be up to sharing any details as to what you saw,” He pressed cautiously. “Was it a deathclaw? It’s been some time since I’ve fought one of those, but—”

“No,” Felina interrupted him, her eyes darting across the still camp as though expecting the thing to suddenly reveal itself. “It’s—it’s not a deathclaw.”

“Then what is it?” Joshua demanded, growing annoyed with her vagueness. “If we know what it is, we can know how to fight it.”

Felina met his gaze then. Her brown eyes were deadly serious, and Graham felt something like electricity passing between them.

“There’s no fighting it,” she said grimly, “I tried, and I couldn’t touch it. I’ve seen the wild wastes produce some pretty strange creatures, but this thing—”

Her words caught in her throat, and she shook her head as though to dispel the memory of it. “It’s in a whole other league. Now please, don’t ask me to talk about it anymore.”

Gripping her shotgun barrel, she pulled herself upright with a grimace, and began hobbling slowly but steadily back toward Angel Cave.

Joshua watched her go. And as her figure vanished into the shadows of the cave, he found himself wondering at the odd sensation in his chest. It was warm, like the fire that burned constantly in his heart, but somehow purer. It made him uncomfortable.

The flames swallowed the feeling up before he could contemplate it too long however, allowing him to dismiss it with ease. Whatever it was, if the flames could consume it so quickly, then it was surely not worth keeping.

-ooo-

Two days more passed in the Dead Horses camp, without incident. Midmorning of the third day found two figures, one pale, one tanned, picking their way carefully along the broad, smooth rocks that formed the riverbanks of the Eastern Virgin. They cut an odd pair, one dressed in hides, the other in Old World jeans; it seemed the only similarity was two pairs of bare, dusty feet.

“Just around this bend!” Follows-Chalk said behind him. His spear hung carelessly over his shoulder, as his feet traversed the rocks with the ease of an expert.

Felina moved with considerably less grace, using her own borrowed spear as a walking stick to keep her balance and offset the remnants of her limp. She trudged doggedly after the tribal, hoping he wouldn’t notice how much she was puffing after scarcely half a mile. A week of almost no exercise had done her no favors.

“Here it is!” Chalk exclaimed proudly. They had rounded a bend in the canyon, revealing a broad, deep pool at the base of a small section of rapids. The Virgin River leapt and tumbled down the stones, tiny waves lapping on the sandy bank as the water swirled away towards the Dead Horses camp. In the shallows of the pool, the glimmer of scales could be seen.

“Two-Bears-High-Fiving has been teaching me how to fish!” Chalk said, splashing knee-deep into the water. “Do they have fish in the Mojave?”

“Uh…” Felina was unused to the idea of radiation-free water, much less water with actual, edible fish. “Dunno. Maybe Lake Mead has some, but the Lakelurks make it not worth checking.”

She watched the tribal with interest as he poised his spear above the water’s surface, but she was reluctant to get her own feet wet. In the past week, she had asked many questions about Zion and the tribes, and Chalk had asked her just as many questions about the Mojave, and other lands she had seen in her travels as a courier.

“So, Joshua seems…a lot more religious than most people I’ve met,” She said at length, growing bored as Chalk waited, motionless, for the fish to gather around his feet once more. “What’s that all about?”

“Oh, yes, the New Canaanites are odd that way,” Chalk replied, not taking his eyes from the rippling waters. “Joshua talks often about his god’s love, but I have not seen this god. And his tribe only has one, but who is also three, which I do not understand?

“And sometimes, I will see Joshua dunking another tribal in the river, a very odd thing. Surely, they both get cold—”

He broke off as, with a single, lightning-swift motion, his spear pierced the water. He brought it up, and a wriggling fish was skewered on the end. “Got one!”

“Whoa.” Felina blinked in surprise. She hadn’t been expecting to be impressed by him, but she found herself marveling at how fast he had moved. For his youth—he had told her that he was twenty-two, two years younger than her—and all his questions, he was quite capable.

“Joshua calls small fish ‘small fry,’” Chalk said, plucking his prize from the speartip, “This one is middle-sized, so I guess it is middle-fry! Here, catch!”

“What? No!” Felina yelped, but the tribal had already tossed the still-flopping fish in her direction. She caught it briefly, but it slipped from her grip like a bar of wet soap, and she stumbled forward as she made several more swipes at the thing. She ended up on her knees in the shallows, gripping the slimy scales with both hands and trying desperately to keep it from eluding her again. Chalk was little help—he had sat down from laughing and was chest-deep in the water, thoroughly enjoying her predicament.

“That was rude!” Felina chided half-heartedly, flinging the fish back at him. It bounced off the brim of his cap rather than slapping him in the face as she had hoped, but it had the desired effect, and this time both of them dissolved into giggling.

“Whatever are you two doing?”

Felina looked up to see Graham standing on the bank, his head tilted as he watched them. Though his face was obscured, the corners of his eyes were crinkled in what might have constituted as a smile.

“Teaching Filly-na how to fish!” Chalk declared with a grin, hefting his spear in one hand and the fish in the other, still chest-deep in water.

“A very serious lesson, I’m sure,” was Graham’s amused reply as he handed Felina her forgotten spear. “Come on, both of you, enough goofing around. We’re going to the Sorrows’ camp.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is meeting Daniel and Waking Cloud! I'm interested in writing some interaction between Daniel and Joshua, since, you know, they didn't have any in-game. Waking Cloud is 100% going to be the Team Mom.
> 
> And of course, I'd be remiss if I didn't give a shout-out to the best shout-out of all time, that is Two-Bears-High-Fiving. I always thought he just disappeared from the game after his "encounter," but when I went back to Zion to get some reference screenshots, he's still there! I also discovered that I'd forgotten the layout of Angel Cave (rip me), so just imagine that the room with Joshua's bench is in front, and the room where the Dead Horses sleep is in the back. Whoops.


	6. In the Highways, in the Hedges

“I’m going to have to ask that you turn over any weapons you may be carrying.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know the drill. Not a scratch, you hear me?”

Felina tossed her shotgun to the legionary and opened her trenchcoat, allowing him to take her newly-acquired 9mm, Maria. An observer would scarcely have noticed her jaw tightening as the legionary’s hands lingered in his pat-down, but the tough plating of her combat armor prevented too thorough an inspection.

“Very well,” The soldier said, straightening and nodding up the rocky hillside. “Caesar awaits.”

It took all Felina’s self-control not to deliver a biting final insult. After several hours stuck on a tiny boat with a ferryman who made his disdain for her all too clear, her patience was wearing thin, as was her determination to not form a premature opinion on the Legion. But here in their home base, she would certainly find the answers she desired. Nevertheless, her contingency lay in the form of her combat knife, which was strapped tightly to her calf beneath her jeans. It wouldn’t provide much protection, but she wasn’t about to step into what was shaping up to be enemy territory without a backup, however small.

“Ah, Courier, there you are. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Felina halted, looking about for the source of that singularly unpleasant voice, trying to recall where she had heard it before, and why she disliked it so. Finally, her gaze settled on a man dressed similarly to the other legionaries in what seemed to be scavenged sports equipment. All save his hood, which appeared to be the head of a wolf or coyote. Before he even removed his dark glasses, Felina recognized the thin, dangerous smile beneath them, and the skinning knife that hung openly now on his belt.

“You,” Was all she could manage, all her distaste for him contained in that one word, her nose wrinkling as though she had discovered bighorner droppings in her boot.

Vulpes seemed pleasantly surprised at her recognition, hanging his glasses upon the collar of his tunic to regard her through intense, crystalline eyes. “Oh, I wasn’t sure if you’d recognize me from the Tops,” he remarked, and his smile turned a little wryer. “I wasn’t wearing a dog’s head at the time. I trust you still have the Mark?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Felina pulled the medallion from under her armor, letting it clack against her breastplate. “I’m here to shove it up Caesar’s ass. Or maybe yours, if you piss me off enough.”

“My, aren’t we cranky?” Vulpes’ smile never wavered, linking his arm in hers and escorting her up the rocky path as though she was royalty. “Not one for long boat rides, I take it?”

“I met your nice ferryman,” Felina gritted, hating every inch of contact with him, even through her layers of clothing. “He doesn’t think too highly of couriers. Or dancers. Or women.”

“Yes, Lucullus is a true Legion soldier,” Vulpes said proudly. “But that reminds me—you did remember to bring your dancing shoes, yes? Perhaps if we’re lucky, great Caesar will ask a performance of you.”

Felina gave a tight, forced smile that very nearly matched the Fox’s. “Yeah, too bad the Tops won’t let me drag their only dress halfway across the wastes, eh? Maybe some other time.”

“Oh, I’m sure we can arrange something, _puella,”_ Vulpes gave her hand a reassuring pat, and his chuckle sent icy water trickling down her spine.

They were nearing the top of the hill now, and Felina tried to keep from staring at the heavily-laden slaves that staggered past at odd intervals. She was forming an opinion on the Legion quite quickly now.

Finally, they reached the summit, and Vulpes halted before a rather drab canvas tent overlooking the barracks, with an impressive view of Lake Mead and the arid wastes stretching away far below.

“Caesar awaits,” He told her, holding the tent flap open with one hand and donning his glasses with the other. Felina gave him a glare, before stepping inside and beholding the conqueror of eighty-six tribes, the Bull of the East.

“So, you’re the courier I’ve heard so much about,” Caesar drawled, leaning forward to prop an elbow on his knee and giving her a critical once-over. “You cheated death and tracked your would-be killer across the wastes in search of vengeance. Impressive, for a woman.”

For several heartbeats, Felina could only take in the man before her in silence. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting the mighty Caesar to look like, but it certainly wasn’t the severe, hazel-eyed, balding man that was currently regarding her as though she was a mildly interesting petri dish specimen.

“Thanks,” She said at last, deciding to be careful with her words, acutely aware of the half-dozen praetorian guards waiting to skewer her on command if she moved wrong. She knew she could get away with sassing Vulpes, to an extent, but this man was a different case entirely. “What have I done to warrant the honor of a summons?”

Caesar seemed pleased by her respectfulness, even if forced. “I’m told you’re currently carrying a platinum chip of importance to Robert House,” he said. “I won’t overburden your fragile mind with the details, but it bears the sigil of the Lucky 38 casino, the same sigil found on an old bunker on the west edge of camp.”

“And you want in,” Felina guessed.

“Correct,” Caesar replied. “Have you spoken to House, perhaps gotten some insight as to what this bunker contains?”

“He’s sent me an invitation, I haven’t gotten around to visiting yet. Prior arrangements kept me occupied.”

The Bull arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Well, to ensure you _get around_ to that bunker as soon as possible, you will not be permitted to leave the Fort until you’ve fulfilled what I’ve commanded.”

And there was the catch, Felina thought. She was silent for a moment, weighing the risks, then said, “What if I say no?”

Caesar’s gaze hardened. “Then you shall not leave the Fort. I don’t think many of my centurions would object to that.”

He sat back, propping a sandaled foot on his knee and lacing his fingers, fully aware of his command of the situation. “You can either open the bunker yourself, or I will take the chip off your crucified corpse and do it for you. It’s your choice.”

It took all Felina’s willpower not to let her loathing show. She took a deep, calming breath, then said, “I’ll do it.”

“Good,” Caesar smiled smugly, pleased at having gotten his way. As Felina started to turn away, he said again, “Before you go, my Fox tells me you’re a proficient dancer. Is there any truth to this?”

Felina wished the ground would open up and swallow her. Alas, the hard-packed earth yielded no such favor. “I’m good enough,” She replied mildly, “Though, I don’t know if my dances are quite to your tastes. Vegas casino dance is hardly befitting of a proud warrior like yourself.”

For a heartbeat, Felina could see that, combined with her ego-padding, she almost had him convinced, and her heart leapt. Please, let her get out of here as soon as possible!

Then a silky-smooth voice purred close to her ear, “Don’t listen to her, my Lord, she’s too humble for her own good. I’ve seen her dance in person, and her grace would put Terpsichore to shame.”

Felina mentally kicked herself for not noticing Vulpes’ approach; now he stood close enough that she could smell the mustiness of his dog’s hood, feel his breath stirring the hairs by her ear.

Dread settled in her stomach as realization fully sank in that she was surrounded by enemies on all sides, and it was highly unlikely she could get her knife out faster than Vulpes. Every instinct screamed to flee, but with a tremendous effort, she kept herself from trembling, leveled her expression, and met Caesar’s gaze.

“Very well,” He said after several moments of thought, “You will dance for me, after you’ve taken care of the bunker. I’m sure Vulpes can find something for you to wear. Off with you now.”

Felina steamed as she followed Vulpes’ winding path through the camp, dodging legionaries and slaves. “You were enjoying that back there,” She seethed, trying to ignore the shaking of her hands now that the adrenaline was fading from them.

“Immensely,” He replied, his voice dripping smugness. “It is _such_ fun to make you uncomfortable.”

The two approached a supply tent, and Vulpes vanished inside. Felina followed, after a moment of hesitation, and found the Fox tugging the cover off a crate to rummage through it.

“It’s not often we have women guests,” He remarked, tossing aside various outfits—likely disguises—in varying states of cleanliness. “However, our allies on the Strip have provided, should the occasion arise.”

“What allies?” Felina stood near the entrance of the stuffy tent with her arms crossed, as far away from Vulpes as possible and ready to bolt at any second.

To her question, the Fox just glanced up and gave her a knowing smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He held up an outfit that could scarcely have qualified as clothing for how little it covered. “What do you think?”

Felina gave him a stare that could have withered daisies. “I know you guys aren’t the brightest bunch, but there is a difference between _dancer_ and _prostitute._ There is no way in hell I’m wearing that.”

Vulpes smiled. He was pushing her buttons and he knew it. “Oh, you would prefer nothing at all then? Rather unorthodox, but I’m sure Caesar would not—”

“No! Just—” Fed up with his attitude, Felina began shrugging off her trenchcoat. Vulpes’ hand went to his knife at her sudden movement, before he saw what she was doing and made absolutely no gentlemanly effort whatsoever. Her combat armor followed the trenchcoat, then the padded long-sleeve. At last she stood before him in her jeans and sleeveless undershirt, her face beet red.

“If Caesar doesn’t like this, too bad,” She told the Fox, “I’m not going lower.”

If Vulpes was disappointed, he did not show it. He merely gave an airy shrug, tossing the rejected outfit back into the crate. “As you wish. I’m sure your reluctance has nothing to do with the presence of any… _holdouts_ you may be carrying on your person, yes?”

The Courier stood in stony silence, and Vulpes chuckled, pulling his knife from his belt to flip it with deceptive ease. “Oh, don’t worry, I won’t ask you to incriminate yourself. Just know that I can drop a raven on the wing; I’d hate to have to do the same to one of those pretty eyes of yours. Which do you think my knife would look better replacing, left or right?”

He was toying with her, Felina knew, but it was working. She clenched her fists to stop their quivering, took a shuddering breath, and looked into those dark glasses. “Please, just let me at that bunker, and let me put my coat back on before your legionaries faint at the sight of bare arms.”

* * *

 

“Did you see Joshua while you were there?”

“Chalk, don’t interrupt,” The Burned Man chided gently, then said, “But no, this was after my time.”

Felina was almost grateful for the excuse to stop—talking and walking was more tiring than it looked. She had begun telling the story to keep them—mostly Chalk—entertained as the trio plodded through Zion at a steady lope. Joshua had estimated that the trip to the Sorrows’ camp would take about half a day, and the sun was now beginning to dip behind the western peaks, casting long shadows across the valley.

“It seems Edward hasn’t lost his flair for the dramatic,” Graham went on, half to himself. “He had a mouth like a sailor when I knew him. I doubt he’s lost that as well, though I’m sure he makes an effort to hide it.”

Felina frowned. “’Edward?’”

“Caesar,” Graham clarified, “He wasn’t always the way you know him. When we first met, two young men researching the languages of the Grand Canyon tribes, he was only Edward Sallow.”

He sighed then, his voice becoming distant. “How I wish I could return to those days, perhaps prevent all that has happened.”

But Felina had stopped listening after the word _Caesar._ A slow, mischievous grin was creeping across her face.

“Caesar’s real name is _Edward?”_ She realized, then gave a gleeful cackle. “Oh, my god, that’s—that’s incredible. Can you imagine if I waltzed into his tent, happy as a clown, and said in front of all his guards, _‘Ave,_ Eddie, what’s up?’”

She laughed again, and her smile was like a ray of sunlight. “Vulpes would skin me alive, of course, but it would almost be worth it just to see the look on that dumb dog’s face. Oh, my god, I’ll never look at Caesar the same way again.”

Her merriment proved contagious, and Joshua couldn’t help but find himself chuckling at the mental image she provided. And once again, he found that odd feeling in his chest, warm and pure. It burned, but unlike the flames that had plagued him for so many years, it did not consume. All his instincts insisted that he find it loathsome, but it pushed doggedly back against the flames that threatened to swallow it, as though his—or, perhaps Felina’s—laughter was fuel keeping it alight.

Then the Burned Man’s hawk-like gaze caught movement up ahead, and the flames rushed in again. He leaped into action, seizing Felina and Chalk by the scruffs, dragging them off the road and behind a large boulder. Chalk opened his mouth to speak, but Graham shushed him, drawing his pistol and peering from their hiding place, his posture like a coiled snake.

“White Legs,” He growled, his fingers flexing upon the hilt of his weapon as crystalline eyes narrowed to slits. “You two, weapons ready, but don’t fire until I give the signal. We’re going to follow them.”

Felina readied her shotgun, and Chalk his pistol, both following after Graham as he clamored up the embankment that bordered the road. The Courier spotted a number of pale, painted figures making their way along the ruined concrete ahead, and forced herself not to think about the caravan attack, and that thing from out of the smoke.

Keeping low to the ground, the trio kept a comfortable hundred yards between themselves and the tribals, who seemed unaware that they were being stalked.

“Surely not,” Joshua muttered, watching as the White Legs left the road, which took a sharp right, and continued straight down an embankment to vanish from sight. Creeping along the rocky earth and sheltering behind scrubby bushes, the trio crawled on their stomachs up to a ledge, and there paused to recon the area. Below stretched a shallow body of water, and across it rose more red rock cliffs.

Joshua pointed to a gap in the cliffs opposite them, where a stream flowed out to join the lake. “That’s the entrance to the Narrows, and the Sorrows’ camp beyond. I’m certain the White Legs are going to try and ambush them.”

“So, what do we do?” Felina whispered, “Looks like there’s about fifteen of them, and only three of us. Do you think we can take them?”

The Burned Man’s keen gaze scanned the clifftops, and caught a painted figure bounding away into the gathering dusk. “The sentries have been alerted. We just need to keep the White Legs busy until the Sorrows get here.”

“But you said they don’t know how to fight,” Felina remembered.

“I said they know nothing of war,” Graham corrected her. “They cannot hold their own against firearms for long, but they are not incapable of defending themselves. Now, you two, wait here until I give the signal.”

As Felina looked over on her other side to Chalk, whose face was set with grim determination, she felt a pressure on her thigh. Glancing back, she saw the Burned Man’s agile fingers had slid her combat knife from its sheath, and he was now shuffling backward away from the ledge. Another few moments, and he was vanished into the dusk like a wraith on the wind.

Felina briefly wondered how someone wearing so much white could move so stealthily, but she wrapped her fingers around her shotgun and turned her gaze back to the White Legs below, who were carefully sloshing their way across the lake by way of a sandbar. They moved single file, minimizing the chances of the whole group being caught waist-deep in the water.

“Why does Salt-Upon-Wounds not send the beast to help us?” One tribal near the back of the party grumbled to no one in particular, waiting his turn to wade into the dark waters. “Won’t get anywhere like this.”

“Said this tribe has no storm-drums,” His comrade reminded him, “Only one New Canaanite may have one.”

“New Canaanite?” The first tribal’s breath hitched. “The Burned Man is here?”

“Don’t know,” His companion admitted, his gaze flitting nervously along the clifftops above. “Said there was more than—”

His words cut off abruptly. The first tribal glanced back and saw a combat knife had buried itself to the hilt in his neck. The White Leg toppled with a gurgle, and the screams of his living comrade were swiftly silenced by a bullet to the brow, the gunshot echoing off the cliffs.

“I guess that’s the signal.” Felina leaped over the ledge, skidding down the embankment with Chalk hard on her heels. The Dead Horse was shouting a war cry with a sound like a dying beast, and the faces of the White Legs filled with fear at the awful sound.

Chaos erupted along the lakeshore. Felina dodged a spear jab, blasting its owner with her shotgun before rolling out of the way as a hail of bullets peppered the dirt in her wake. Ducking behind a rock, she met Follows-Chalk, who covered her fire, allowing Felina to down a White Leg trying to flank them and reload.

Then Joshua appeared, and the White Legs fell back in terror, those in the water splashing further across the sandbar away from him. One unlucky tribal stumbled, and the hilt of the Burned Man’s pistol cracked savagely across his jaw, downing him. Spinning his weapon around, he dispatched two more painted foes, before falling back behind a boulder to avoid a spray of counter-fire.

Good, Felina thought, now if they could just keep up this tag-team until the Sorrows got here.

“Filly-na, watch out!”

Felina caught movement from the corner of her eye, and was scarcely able to block the falling machete upon the barrel of her shotgun. Sparks flew as metal ground against metal. The Courier matched the snarl of the White Leg, shoving him back and driving her boot into his midriff. She leveled her shotgun before he could get his breath back, and his lifeless form sprawled into the water.

Before she could savor her victory however, her weapon was knocked from her grasp into the shallows, and she found herself facing a snarling, spear-wielding tribal. Felina lunged, seizing the spear haft and trying to wrest it from his grip. The two spun and twisted, churning the water to froth beneath them, each trying to claim the weapon.

Without warning, the tribal halted as though struck by lightning, eyes wide with confusion. “You!”

“Huh?” Felina’s stared at him, still gripping the spear haft.

“F-from the caravan!” The White Leg sputtered, forgetting their fight in disbelief. “You should be dead!”

Felina looked at the metal spearhead then, dried blood crusting its edges, and her barely-healed wound began to throb as realization struck her.

Then from across the lake, shouts rang out. The heads of Courier and White Leg snapped toward the sound, and saw a number of brown-skinned, painted figures splashing across the sandbar towards them, armed with clawed gauntlets. The Sorrows had arrived.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Felina wrenched the spear from the tribal’s grasp and shoved him down into the shallows. Unarmed, he stared at her wide-eyed, his chest heaving, but he did not beg for mercy, even as his comrades fell around him.

Looking at him, Felina felt sudden pity. He looked young behind all that paint, likely her age or younger, and he probably didn’t even know why he fought. He didn’t deserve this.

“Get up!” She barked, and the tribal flinched as she stabbed the spear into the water beside him. “Go on, get out of here!”

The White Leg needed no second bidding. He scrambled upright, splashing to the bank and beginning to clamor up the embankment, using scrubby bushes as handholds.

“What are you _doing?”_

Felina whirled at the furious snarl, and saw Joshua shoving aside a lifeless White Leg to storm towards her, froth spraying from his steps.

“He doesn’t know what he’s doing,” She tried to reason with him, “He’s young and foolish. He deserves another shot.”

“You don’t know that, Courier,” Graham growled, and aimed his pistol at the tribal’s retreating figure.

“Joshua, no!” Felina grabbed his arm as his finger closed on the trigger, and the shot went wide. Graham tried again, but the gun only clicked, its clip emptied. The fleeing tribal cleared the embankment and vanished into the gathering dusk.

“Courier!” The Burned Man seized Felina’s wrist painfully hard in his free hand, his eyes narrowed to slits behind the bandages. “Now he will go on to kill more innocents, assuming Salt-Upon-Wounds does not kill him for fleeing. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

For several heartbeats, the two stared at each other with such intensity that the air between them could have caught fire. Indignation blazed in Felina’s brown eyes, fury smoldering in Joshua’s blue ones as they remained locked in one another’s grip for a moment and an eternity.

“Joshua!”

The spell was broken at the new voice. The two broke apart as another man splashed towards them, wielding a .45 similar to Joshua’s. Behind him, the gauntlet-wielding Sorrows were dispatching the remaining White Legs, whose morale was quickly falling now that they no longer outnumbered their foes.

“Daniel,” Graham replied, taking a breath and trying to compose himself as he clasped the other man’s hand. “It’s good to see you again, brother.”

Felina studied the newcomer curiously. His skin tone was similar to that of the tribals, with dark, almond-shaped eyes set in an angular face. He hadn’t shaved recently, and his button-down flannel sported patches on both elbows. Despite this, he wore a bright smile as he greeted Joshua.

“Daniel, this is Felina,” Graham introduced her, “She’s a courier from the Mojave. Felina, this is Daniel, a fellow New Canaanite.”

“Joshua, Filly-na! That was some kind of fight, huh? Did you see how I tackled that White Leg?”

Felina laughed as a grinning Follows-Chalk rejoined them, sporting several bruises and a black eye, but otherwise unharmed. “That’s a nice shiner you’ve got there,” she teased him, “Make sure to polish it every day, or it’ll get dull.”

“Daniel, I brought Felina to tell you about the attack on her caravan,” Graham went on, “I fear we may be in more danger than we’ve realized.”

The New Canaanite’s smile faded. His gaze darted across the deepening dusk, ushering them into the canyon. “Then we must not delay. Come back to camp and tell me everything.”

Felina retrieved her shotgun, shaking the water from it, and splashed after the little group into the winding cliffs. The Narrows swallowed them up.

* * *

 

Across Zion, it was nearing midnight when the lone survivor of the failed ambush stumbled into the Three Marys, his breath ragged. The sentries spotted his approach, and soon half the camp was stirring, eager for a report.

“Chieftain!” The tribal called hoarsely, splashing to the bank, “Chieftain! Must hear of this!”

Salt-Upon-Wounds shoved aside the flap of his tent, cross at being awakened. Kore shadowed his footsteps as he approached the weary tribal.

“Were almost to the Sorrows’ camp,” The survivor gasped, still trying to get his breath back, “When the Burned Man attacked from behind. Fights like a devil, he does!”

“And your entire party could not take down one man?” Salt-Upon-Wounds demanded, but the tribal shook his head.

“Wasn’t alone,” he went on, “Had a Dead Horse with him, but also had an outlander! The woman from the caravan survived! Thought she was a ghost at first, but she wasn’t!”

“What?” Salt-Upon-Wounds’ eyes narrowed. “No one survives Zion’s Bane!”

“This one did.” The tribal decided to leave out that it was his own spear that had failed to bring the outlander down, and that the same woman had spared his life.

Salt-Upon-Wounds raised his head then and barked, “Beast! Come!”

A dry wind rushed through the canyon, and the White Legs shivered at its chill, goosebumps crawling up painted arms. The river ran, and it seemed as though the dark water was a doorway to places unknown, a gate into the mirrored sky.

Then Zion’s Bane was among them, and those assembled fell back before its presence.

“You left a survivor from the caravan!” Salt-Upon-Wounds bellowed, but his fury seemed small before the terror of the creature, and he could not make himself look into the twin voids of its eyes. “Can you not tell the difference between the living and the dead? Should have made sure!”

Zion’s Bane said nothing, only looking at Kore, who alone saw it for what it was, who alone could meet its dreadful gaze, though she shuddered for it.

It said to her, **Mother, what is my name?**

Kore said nothing, for Salt-Upon-Wounds ranted on, oblivious, but the beast read her answer in her face: _I’m not your mother._

 **But you are _a_ mother,** it replied, and saw the truth of it in her eyes.

It was so loveless, Kore realized, and felt again that stirring in her breast. The piteous, loveless, nameless thing. How she longed to reach out and draw it into her lap. A name she could not give it, but she could give it love. But would it even accept?

“—better next time! Are you even listening to me?” Salt-Upon-Wounds ran out of breath, heedless of the words that had passed between creature and woman. He stood breathing heavily, his fists clenched, but his power fist was still in the tent, having forgotten it in his haste.

Slowly, Zion’s Bane turned its gaze back to him. It stood as a statue, the only movement being the flames that burned but did not warm, casting flickering shadows across the camp.

“Better not let this happen again,” The chieftain hissed, and his voice dropped so that only the beast and Kore could have heard. “Remember, beast, I still hold your name.”

Zion’s Bane did nothing, said nothing, did not even blink. It departed then, taking its flames with it, and the night closed upon the camp once more.

“Strange creature,” Salt-Upon-Wounds muttered, half to himself, placing a reassuring hand upon his power fist by the cot. Weak lamplight scarcely illuminated his pale form as he ran a hand through his braids. “Won’t ever understand it, doubt even the Fox understands it. Hold power over it, but it does not fear me as the tribals do.”

He turned then to Kore, and his brow furrowed, all his zeal forgotten as he gazed upon her. “Are you?”

She looked up at him, her eyes white in the dark of her face. “Am I what?”

“Afraid of me.” Salt-Upon-Wounds moved aside a braid that had fallen in her face, the hand whose fist had smashed a hundred skulls resting lightly as a feather upon her cheek.

Kore looked at the man before her, and saw again that fateful day, saw the cross looming before her. She heard again the intervening shout, saw the Fox’s smile and shrug: _do as you will with her._

Salt-Upon-Wounds had loved her, so had he saved her. But one of these things was as imagined as the honor of his braids.

When Kore finally spoke, it was with all sincerity. “I do not fear you.”

“Oh, beloved.” The pale man closed his eyes, leaning down to rest his brow upon hers. “I am glad of that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like Waking Cloud will come next chapter--I underestimated how long the lead-up to meeting the Sorrows would take, and I wanted to have a new chapter up for Christmas.
> 
> On that note, Merry Christmas!!


	7. What Is This That I Can't See

_The pitch weighs his limbs down, and he can scarcely see through it, so heavily is it caked upon his face. His breath wheezes through a tiny slit over his mouth, for his nostrils are clogged. No longer can he feel the night wind nipping at his naked form; now every inch of him is coated with thick, black resin. He is acutely aware of the yawning void that lies mere feet behind him, waiting to swallow him up._

_Before him, a crowd of legionaries stand, some jeering, some shaking their heads, some only standing in silence, not daring to look away or express sympathy for their former legate. He sees the ever-smiling Fox, torchlight reflecting in four eyes, two canine, two human. And he sees Caesar, gripping a box of matches. His face is impassive, any pain at what he was about to do to his former friend masked so thoroughly that it may as well have not existed at all._

_“You have brought shame upon the Legion,” Caesar says, without pity, or remorse. “For that, you will perish, like the dog you are.”_

_The match is struck, like a tiny star brought down to earth, and the doomed man turns his eyes to where the rest of the stars hang suspended in the arc of the sky. He stands on the brink of the abyss, both in this world and the next, and as he stares into that gaping pit, he sees what has been lost to him for so many years. He sees it all too clearly._

_His resin-caked lips form the words,_ forgive me, Father.

 _The match flies spinning through the air, landing at his feet, and the flames leap upon him, latching greedily into the pitch. In a heartbeat he is consumed. At first, there is no pain. Only heat, for the flames have not yet reached flesh through the thick layering of the resin. But it only takes moments for the heat to become unbearable, searing agony. His eyes are fixed upon heaven however, and he does not scream. He only whispers:_ and forgive them also.

_Flickering shadows dance across Caesar’s grim face as he jerks a stiff nod toward the burning man. Legionaries hurry forward, clad in tough rubber, grabbing hold of the disgraced legate and lifting him bodily from the ground, melted pitch dripping from him in flaming tongues. The sky tilts dizzyingly above him, before he is loosed from the legionaries’ grasp and into open air._

_His stomach lurches as the stars whirl above his feet. He blazes like a meteor as he falls, but the only sound is the crackle of pitch, and the roar of wind and flames in his ears. Every inch of him is burning now. The sensation of a thousand needles piercing his arms and legs is beginning to fade into a distant tingle, the nerves becoming badly damaged. But his chest feels as though it is filled with molten lava, charring his heart into a blackened cavity._

_His own fiery glow illuminates the rocks rushing up toward him._

* * *

 

With a hideous jolt, Graham awoke, every muscle in his body tensed to spring, to escape from an unknown danger.

But the cave was quiet. The faint light from the dying firepit revealed the scattered figures of Daniel, Felina, and Follows-Chalk, still asleep upon their respective beds of hides. All was peaceful.

Clenching his fists to stop their shaking, the Burned Man let out a shuddering breath. Nightmares were not uncommon for him, whether they be of his burning, or reliving one of the countless atrocities he had committed in the name of the Bull. He supposed they were just another aspect of his divine punishment for what he had done.

His internal clock told him it was nearing dawn. His heart still racing from the dream, he knew he would not be getting any more sleep that night, so he rose and donned his vest before slipping quietly from the cave.

Not long after his departure, Felina stirred. Scrubbing sleep from her eyes and sliding into her trenchcoat, she emerged from what Daniel had called Half Mouse Cave and into the chill of the morning. The Sorrows camp spread out below her, the stream winding away into the twisting canyon, various cave entrances scattered here and there along the opposing cliff face, and the small waterfall that tumbled down the red rock strata. The sight was just as beautiful as the Dead Horses camp, if not more.

Then Felina’s gaze settled on the streambank below, where a pale figure crouched on the sand. She watched, fascinated, as Joshua carefully unwound the bandages from his left arm, and submersed the charred limb into the flowing stream.

Part of her urged to go down and talk to him, to try and reconcile their scuffle over the life of the spear-wielding White Leg. She was an outlander who didn’t know how things were done here, and he was a veteran who had faced the White Legs who knew how many times. He probably knew what was best.

In the end however, her pride won over. He didn’t like her showing some basic human compassion? Well, tough luck; she didn’t need the approval of a crusty old man to do what he _should_ have been doing, if he claimed to be a man of God. If nothing else, she wasn’t about to give him the opportunity to say _I told you so._

Turning away from the sight of the Burned Man before she could get herself too worked up, Felina instead opted to follow the rocky path as it wound its way further up the cliffside. Haphazard rope bridges spanned the two sides of the Narrows at odd intervals, but Felina refrained from testing them, and continued up the winding path until it dead-ended in the shelter of a rocky overhang high above the Sorrows camp. A small pile of boulders from some long-ago rockfall and a lone, scrubby tree were the only objects of interest, as the contours of the surrounding cliffs obscured any scenic views, save for the top of the waterfall as it tumbled over the nearby precipice.

The Courier inhaled deeply of the clear air. Then, shrugging off her coat and laying it on a nearby rock, she stepped out of her boots and stretched out her leg before her, pointing her toes. The healing muscles still retained a slight twinge, but they would support her weight.

Slowly, her healing leg wobbling from the effort, Felina extended her good leg to the side. Her lips pressed together with concentration, she tried to raise the limb to be vertical, a move that would have been the easiest thing in the world three weeks ago. But despite her best efforts, her aching hamstrings prevented her from straightening out fully, and her knee retained a slight bend even with the support of her arm. She lowered to a standing position again with a disappointed sigh, making a mental note to do plenty of stretching before she got back to the Mojave.

“That was very beautiful.”

Felina forced herself not to start at the unexpected voice—Joshua had a knack for sneaking up on her. But when she turned around, it was only Daniel, gripping a weathered book in one hand.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” He told her, touching the brim of his hat apologetically, “I often come up here in the mornings to pray, but it seems you’ve beaten me to it.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” To her own surprise, Felina wasn’t as embarrassed as she had been expecting. Perhaps it was that Daniel was easier company than Joshua. “What do you pray about? The tribes?”

“Among other things, yes,” Daniel settled on one of the large boulders, his brow creasing as he looked out over the restricted view. “I pray for all of them.”

“Even the White Legs?”

“Even the White Legs.”

Felina supposed she hadn’t been expecting much of a different answer, but it surprised her nonetheless. “I guess Joshua did mention you guys are supposed to pray for your enemies,” She admitted, pulling on her boots. “I haven’t asked him much about it though. He’s kind of…”

She trailed off, remembering that this was Joshua’s closest friend, and likely highly defensive of him, but the New Canaanite finished for her.

“Intense?” He suggested, “Passionate? Zealous?”

“Well…yeah. Exactly like that.”

Daniel nodded sagely. “Yes, he has always been like that. He is always eager for a fight; I think it helps to quell the Legion’s fire that still lingers in his heart. We’ve been butting heads over the issue of the White Legs for some months because of it.”

“Joshua said you want to lead the Sorrows to safety,” Felina remembered. “And just let the White Legs take over Zion?”

“Yes.” Daniel’s expression turned a little sadder. “It is a shame, really. But the Sorrows are peaceful. Once they learn of war, they will never be the same. By evacuating them from Zion, that part of their culture will remain intact.”

“But then they lose their homeland,” Felina countered. “You can’t just take away one part of their culture in the name of protecting another. By staying, yes, the Sorrows will have to learn to fight, but they would have to learn sooner or later anyway. The wastes have worse threats than yao guai and geckoes, and it’s only a matter of time before one of them comes wandering into Zion. Salt-Upon-Wounds and his beast are living proof of that.”

Daniel sighed wearily. “I see Joshua has already started to rub off on you,” he said, but his tone was not accusatory, only resigned. “I understand where you’re coming from, but this valley is only a place. Zion is more than this.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that Zion is where her people are. If Zion could not exist outside of one place, then the body of Christ would never have left Jerusalem.”

Felina blinked. “You’ve lost me now.”

“Ah, apologies,” Daniel gave a soft laugh, removing his hat to run a hand through his dark hair. “I’m so used to debating this issue with Joshua, I forget that others might not know our history so well.”

He stuffed his hat back on his head and opened his book. “But I’ve kept you long enough. Is there anything you’d like me to pray for?”

“Oh, uh—” Felina hadn’t been expecting such an odd request. Without really thinking, she found herself saying, “For Joshua and I.”

The New Canaanite’s eyebrow quirked, and Felina blushed. “I mean—we had a bit of a disagreement during the fight last night,” She explained quickly, “I guess you could pray that we patch things up or something.”

“Of course.” Daniel smiled, but Felina could not tell if he suspected anything.

Wait, she realized as she crunched down the rocky path, of course he didn’t suspect anything. What was she thinking? There was nothing _to_ suspect…was there? No, there wasn’t, so she shouldn’t be worrying like this.

The Courier gave Joshua a wide berth, staying on the opposite side of the stream from him as she passed. She forced herself not to look over to where he still knelt on the bank, but she could feel his eyes on her, and knew he was still irritated about last night. Well, let him be. What concern was is of hers?

Felina halted before the waterfall, staring into it with the unseeing gaze of one lost in thought. A solid two minutes passed with the tumbling current, before she realized there was a flicker of light coming from behind it, scarcely visible through the falling waters.

Looking back to make sure she was out of Joshua’s line of sight—she was, for the stream took a slight curve, and the cliffs with it, obscuring the Burned Man from her view—Felina splashed across a shallow place and approached the waterfall. The current, while quite small by waterfall standards, was enough to send it out a few feet as it tumbled over the clifftop some fifty feet above. And there behind it, disguised as a mist-soaked crevice, was an opening in the rocks.

With an instinctive glance back to make sure no one was looking, Felina took a cautious step into the cave. It could scarcely qualify as such, being not six feet wide and twelve feet deep at the most, and barely high enough for Felina to stand straight without knocking her head. But there in the back of the space, upon a broad slab of stone, sat what appeared to be a shrine or alter.

Felina knelt before it, studying it curiously. Small candles scavenged from some Old World ranger station sat on either side of a bleached skull, likely a yao guai by the shape. The eye sockets of the grinning visage had been filled with the small, white datura flowers Felina had observed across Zion. More of the blossoms decorated either side, strategically placed so that the candles would not accidentally set them alight. Their thick scent filled the tiny cave. Though strangely beautiful, it was a sad, almost eerie sight, and Felina suddenly found herself feeling cold, despite the warmth of her coat.

“It is in remembrance of great sorrow.”

The Courier jumped at the sudden voice—twice in one morning, had she always been this jittery?—and twisted around to see a tribal woman silhouetted in the entrance. Like all the Sorrows, her hair was cut close to her scalp, and she wore a mixture of animal hides and Old World garments that had seen better days. Feathers decorated the collar of her faded halter top, but her most striking features were the two sets of three indigo lines that began at her collarbone, tracing their way down either side of her exposed midriff to just above each knee. The marks ended by fragmenting into droplets, almost like rain…or tears.

“Such a strange thing, no?” She went on, and Felina moved over to make room for her in the cramped space as she approached. “Sorrow for the Sorrows. But it is a thing we are not well acquainted with, as odd as it may seem.”

The woman knelt beside the Courier, the weak candlelight reflecting in her dark eyes as she gazed at the grinning skull. “Daniel says that sorrow can bring us closer to the Father, or it can drive us away. He says it is our duty to decide which it will be.”

She looked over at Felina for the first time. “I am Waking Cloud, midwife to the Sorrows.”

“Felina,” The Courier replied. “I’m sorry if I intruded on your memorial.”

“It is well,” Waking Cloud reassured her. She leaned forward to arrange the flowers a little neater about the skull, and Felina watched her curiously.

“What’s the story behind this?” She ventured at length. “Is it for, like, your founder or something?”

But Waking Cloud only shook her head. “It is a sad story. Perhaps someday you will hear of it, but not this day.”

“Oh.” Felina stared down at her hands folded in her lap, suddenly feeling a little awkward.

The tribal woman stared into the flowering eyes of the skull, into life blooming from death. After several long moments, she said, “Daniel has taught us that even though we sing the Father’s praises when the sun shines down, in storm we must still rejoice.”

“The Father?”

“Yes, the Father,” Waking Cloud replied, then added as though to remind herself, “who is not the Father in the Caves, but the Father’s Father.”

“Ah.” Felina didn’t know who the Father in the Caves was, but Waking Cloud did not seem inclined to divulge. The two sat in silence for so long that Felina’s legs began to fall asleep, and she tried not to fidget, unsure of what to say or do.

Finally, she spoke up. “Well, um, I must be going. Chalk probably needs help with…cleaning his gun or something.”

“Yes.” Waking Cloud scarcely seemed to notice as Felina shuffled backward and ducked out of the cave. The tribal woman remained long after she had left, her face impassive as she stared into the sightless eyes of the yao guai skull. It met her gaze unwaveringly.

* * *

 

Evening shadows shrouded the Narrows, and torches flared to meet it. Brightly-painted bighorner hides suspended between poles surrounded the great firepit, which occupied the largest chunk of available shoreline. Foraging and hunting parties had been in and out all day, returning with baskets full of banana yucca, freshly-caught fish, and even some tins of Cram and a handful of other Old World foods. The bonfire crackled to life, matching the energy and excitement of the Sorrows gathering around it, and of even a few Dead Horses a hunting party had met and invited back.

“Hoi, Filly-na, sit by me!”

Felina arranged her trenchcoat about her as she joined Follows-Chalk in sitting cross-legged on the ground. On the young tribal’s other side sat Daniel, and beyond him Joshua. Before them sat assorted baskets of fruit and fish, but Felina noticed that no one else was taking anything, and so folded her hands in her lap.

“So, what happens now?” She whispered to Chalk, studying the tribals surrounding the fire with interest.

“Chieftain White Bird will speak first I think,” Chalk replied, drumming his fingers upon his leg impatiently. “I hope he comes out soon—I am hungry!”

“I see you’ve got your priorities in order,” Felina teased him, but refrained from further joshing, for White Bird entered the firelight.

The tribal chief was lean and lanky, clad in skins ornately adorned with various feathers and colored beads. His face was narrow, though not unkind, the firelight reflecting in his dark eyes as he spoke out, “My people, let us thank the Father for the gift of plenty. The valley has blessed us this night.”

He then gestured to where Felina and company sat. “And let us also thank the Father for our friends the New Canaanites, who aided us in victory against the White Legs.”

Applause rippled through the assembled tribals, and Felina leaned forward to grin over at the two in question. Daniel rubbed the back of his neck with a bashful smile, and though Joshua’s face was covered, the hunched posture of his shoulders indicated a similar attitude.

“Now, rejoice in our victory, and celebrate!” White Bird cried with a bright smile, and retreated to the sidelines as merry pipe and drum music burst forth. Several Sorrows leapt into the firelight, clad in jangling bells, and whoops rang out as they whirled and stamped in time with the music.

“Now we can eat!” Chalk told Felina, but the Courier could only watch the dancers in awe for several minutes. A few tribals got up from their seats to join in, falling effortlessly into step with their costumed clansmen.

“They’re really good,” Felina marveled, “Can anyone just join in?”

“Oh, yes,” Chalk replied around a mouthful of fish, “I will join them soon, but food is first! You could go out there, though, if you are not hungry.”

“Oh, I don’t know how to dance like these guys,” Felina said with a blush, and reached for a fish. She happened to glance over and saw that Joshua had vanished from his spot beside Daniel. He must not be much of a party person, she thought.

“Alright!” Chalk washed down the last of his food with a huge gulp from a skin of water. “Dance time! Come on, Filly-na!”

“No, no,” Felina laughed as he grabbed her hand, trying to pull her upright. “I don’t know how!”

Chalk pouted. “Okay, but you are missing the fun!”

With that, he leapt into the dance. His steps were imperfect, but no one cared, least of all him, judging by the beaming smile on his face. The bonfire leapt and crackled some twenty feet high, casting shadows dark upon the red rock of the cliffs, sparks soaring to join the stars above.

Felina wandered the outside of the circle after eating, feeling out of place despite her enjoyment. She watched the dancers, wanting to join, but was too self-conscious to make herself do so. Usually, her dance was a solo act, with the only standard being her own, and she was unused to being part of a group.

Then she spotted Joshua perched on a boulder on the outer reaches of the firelight, the glow turning his eyes to the now-familiar points of blue.

“Mind if I join you?” She asked, sidling over to him.

“Not at all.” The Burned Man moved over to make room for her on the boulder. If he was still annoyed with her, he did not show it, only commenting, “I expect this is rather a different sort of party than the kind you’re used to in Vegas.”

“You have no idea.” Felina gave a soft laugh, trying to keep her tone lighthearted as she settled beside him, though acutely aware of the lack of space between them. “If you think the Chairmen are flirts when they’re sober, you haven’t seen them tipsy. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve practically had to carry Swank after he challenged some NCR soldier to a drinking game.”

The flickering firelight cast a peach-colored hue to her cheeks as she smiled at the dancers. “I kinda like it here, though. It’s a nice change of pace.”

The two sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the flickering shadows cast by the dancers.

When Felina finally spoke again, her voice was soft, as though admitting something to herself for the first time. “I never really believed in God, but in moments like these where everything is alright, even if it’s only temporarily, I feel like…like there could actually be one.”

Graham was silent. She glanced over at him, and immediately regretted it, for he was studying her with such intensity that she had to look away again, her cheeks flaming.

But the Burned Man only said, “You should be out there with them. Show them how it’s done.”

Felina blushed harder. “I don’t know how to dance like they do.”

“Neither does Daniel,” Joshua reasoned, “and he’s not letting that stop him. Look.”

He pointed, and Felina spotted the New Canaanite’s wide-brimmed hat bobbing amidst the dancers.

“Oh, my god,” She leaned forward, squinting to see him better, then let out a disbelieving laugh. “Is he _clogging?”_

“Something like that.” Joshua chuckled at her bafflement. “I think he learned it off a ghoul somewhere along the line. New Canaan certainly didn’t teach it to him.”

“Alright, now I _have_ to go out there.” Felina slid from the rock, then paused, turning back to him. “Well?”

Graham arched an eyebrow. “Well what?”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“I think I’ll stay,” The Burned Man said, gesturing dismissively. “I’m not one for parties, and someone has to keep lookout—”

Felina put her hands on her hips. “If I’m gonna go out there and make a fool of myself in front of the entire Sorrows tribe, then you’re coming with me. Can you dance?”

“I can, but it’s not—”

“Great! Come on then!”

“—a party sort of dance. Does the word _waltz_ mean anything to you?”

“Nope, sure doesn’t. You stay, I stay, and we can be a couple of lonely old curmudgeons together.”

For several seconds, the Burned Man’s resolve held, before he let out an exasperated huff and stood. “Are you sure this old curmudgeon’s joints can handle it?” He asked, half teasing.

“You were crawling all over the ground yesterday, right before you bodyslammed a White Leg in six inches of water!” Felina shot back, “You aren’t fooling me for one second, old man.”

“It was worth a shot.” Secretly, Graham was glad she cared, as difficult as it was to admit even to himself. The tribals were content to let him go off on his own—that, or they were too afraid of him to question—and even Daniel had given up long ago. It was refreshing to have someone who hadn’t yet become resigned to his behaviors.

“Hey, Joshua, glad you decided to join us!” Daniel laughed, not missing a step as he clapped Graham’s shoulder.

“More like _was persuaded,”_ The Burned Man muttered halfheartedly, but the atmosphere proved too infectious for him to stay sour for long. “Mind showing me a step or two?”

“Filly-na!” Chalk’s painted face broke into a grin at the sight of her. The Courier shrugged off her heavy coat and rolled her shoulders, then both ankles.

“Alright, Chalk,” She matched his smile, cracking her knuckles. “I’ll show you how it’s done in Vegas!”

With that, she leapt into the ring of dancers. It took her several steps to get used to the tempo of the pipe and drum, but within minutes she was whirling and leaping in a dance that was neither tribal nor Vegas, but a strange—though not unsightly—mix of both. She borrowed from the tribals, and the tribals borrowed from her, each sequence of movements individual, yet seeming part of a greater whole.

Joshua watched her, her slight form silhouetted by the leaping bonfire. That feeling was there again in his chest, like scalding water, burning, but also cleansing. And to his own surprise, as he watched Felina laughing alongside Chalk and the Sorrows, he did not find it quite so uncomfortable.

After what seemed an age, Felina retreated to the sidelines, sweating from both exertion and the heat of the fire. She could not remember the last time she had had so much fun, but now her legs felt like rubber. Crouching to catch her breath, she did not notice the presence at her side until she felt a light touch on her shoulder.

“Outlander?” White Bird stood beside her, holding a lit torch. “You are the one who came with Joshua and Follows-Chalk?”

“Yes, that’s me.” Felina stood, smoothing her ruffled hair down in an attempt to look somewhat presentable in front of the Sorrows chieftain.

“Waking Cloud has told me of you,” White Bird went on, “You wish to know our stories, yes?”

“I was curious, yeah.”

White Bird nodded. “You helped my people fight the White Legs. For that, I will help you to understand, if I can. A favor for a favor.”

“Oh, uh, thanks,” Felina glanced back as he led her from the firelight, but Daniel had his back to her, and she could not tell if Joshua noticed her departure.

“With our wisdom, you may see many things.” The Sorrows chieftain led Felina across the dark stream and up the hill to one of the many caves that waited like gaping mouths in the cliffs. “Even I do not know the full way of it.”

Felina thought she knew where this was going as she ducked into the cave after the lanky tribal. “Well, if your wisdom’s name rhymes with ‘Menthats,’ count me out. I don’t do that stuff.”

White Bird frowned as he tossed the torch into the cave’s firepit, and crouched to remove a kettle from over the coals. “I have not heard of these ‘Men-thats.’ Our wisdom is from tea.”

“Oh, just tea?” Felina breathed a mental sigh of relief as she sat upon one of the fireside log seats, and simultaneously scolded herself for jumping to the worst conclusions. The Sorrows seemed harmless enough after all—maybe this was one of the things Daniel had taught them.

Steam rose from the small wooden cup as White Bird carefully filled it, and offered it to her. Felina blew on the dark drink to cool it, before taking a cautious sip.

“It is bitter,” White Bird said a moment too late—it took all Felina’s willpower not to spit out the stuff, which tasted like turpentine. Nevertheless, she swallowed it, trying not to grimace, and forced herself to take another sip. It tasted so bad that her eyes started to water, but she made herself continue. After several more sips, it did not taste nearly as bitter—either it was an acquired taste, or her taste buds had given up trying to process it altogether.

The Courier blinked—was White Bird’s form beginning to swim before her, or was it just the heat of the fire? The tea scalded her insides, and the Sorrows’ voice sounded distant—so distant that she could not make out what he was saying.

The cup fell from her hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [insert obligatory 'and that's the tea' joke here]
> 
> This next scene is proving especially difficult to plan/write (not for any sensitive material though, so don't worry about sudden rating changes) so I figured I'd post what I have now to tide you guys over while I figure out this next part. My biggest issue is that because I'm writing this fic as I post it rather than finishing the entire thing and posting in chunks, I can't go back and add stuff, which is really shaking what little faith I had in my character development process. But worrying isn't writing, so I'll keep on trucking, and it might look like crap, but hey, at least I'll have learned something in the process.
> 
> In other news, happy New Year!!


	8. See the Pain upon My Brow

Darkness. All around her was darkness, pressing in on all sides. Darkness…and silence.

For a few moments—or, perhaps a few hours—Felina could only stand, unsure if she should be afraid or not. The black was solid beneath her feet, though in such darkness, she almost doubted that she even possessed a body.

Then a sound caught her ear. It was quiet almost indiscernible, but the silence gave it volume. It was the sound of whispers, so faint as to be inarticulate, but there nonetheless. What were they?

“They are the jealous dead.”

Felina was certain she hadn’t spoken her thought aloud, and yet a voice had answered. She looked about for the source, but there was none, and she could hear no sound of anyone nearby. Only more blackness pressing in.

“Why are they jealous?” She asked.

“Because death could not keep you,” The voice replied. “Few can boast such a claim. You crawled from a shallow grave with unfinished business. The dead are jealous because you still have a chance.”

“A chance to what?”

“A chance to choose. To have the mastery over the fate of yourself and the Mojave. To go your own way.”

Felina considered this. Then she asked, “What does it mean to have the mastery?”

“It means you bow to no one, follow no one’s law but your own. No gods, no masters, for you are both.”

The clarity of the words drowned out the whispers. Felina was silent, again considering, still unafraid.

“To bend the knee is to suffer,” the voice went on. “The Burned Man learned this all too well, and yet he continues, despite how the flames ravaged him inside and out. But soon, he will see the truth.”

“What truth is that?”

“That all authority is, in the end, futile. Did not Caesar turn on him the moment he erred? As for his god, well, he may as well have abandoned his followers for all the help he’s been lately.”

The Courier swallowed. It was true—Joshua had bowed to Caesar, and not a day passed, nor ever would, when he did not feel the pain of his choice. He had bowed to his god, who seemed content to watch as New Canaan burned, its people scattered, the survivors driven from pillar to post.

Then she said, “What about Daniel?”

* * *

 

“Joshua, have you seen Filly-na?”

The bonfire was beginning to dim, the Sorrows trickling away to their caves in twos and threes as an out-of-breath Follows-Chalk approached the Burned Man.

“I haven’t,” Graham replied. He sat cross-legged on the ground beside Daniel, both worn out and resting. “Perhaps she got tired and turned in early.”

“She did not,” Came a new voice, and the three looked over to see Waking Cloud approaching. “She is with White Bird.”

Daniel sat up straight then, his dark eyes flashing with realization. A heartbeat later he was on his feet, his exhaustion forgotten, sprinting along the shoreline as fast as his legs could carry him.

“What is it, what’s going on?” Joshua demanded, hurrying after him, but the other New Canaanite did not stop to answer. He nearly fell in his haste to ford the stream, bounding up the night-dark path as though pursued by wild dogs.

* * *

 

“Daniel?” The voice asked, seeming mildly surprised.

“Yeah, Daniel,” Felina said. “He seems so calm all the time, so…so at peace with everything.”

“It is a lie,” The voice snarled. “A façade to fool the unsuspecting. Within, the doubt he holds is greater than any. After all, if his great Lord is so all-powerful, so all-loving, why do his own suffer so? Only by going your own way can true freedom be experienced, with no one else to guide you, to manipulate you.”

The words bore down upon Felina, crushing the breath from her. Was this the truth? What a painful one it was! And yet, what other choice was there?

“It…it sounds so lonely,” She whispered, and her voice cracked with tears. “I don’t want to be alone!”

“You shall not be alone,” The voice reassured her, and Felina felt warmth like encircling arms about her, folding her into their embrace. “I shall be with you. I shall protect you, as I always have, every day of your life I have shielded you. You deserve this.”

Somehow, in the deepest part of her soul, Felina knew that the voice did not lie. How could it? What could explain the countless times she had cheated death, all the long miles of her existence? Raiders could not kill her, deathclaws could not kill her, a game rigged from the start could not kill her, and most recently, Zion’s Bane could not kill her.

Felina put her hands to her face and found her cheeks damp. Why was she crying?

“Trust me,” The voice whispered, soothing, comforting. “I shall protect you from the one who would destroy you, who would unmake everything that you are.”

A light shone in the darkness.

It was small, so small that Felina could have put out her thumb and blocked it out. But in that dark, it stabbed her tear-blurred eyes like knives. She cried out at the pain, but to her own shock found that her hands were reaching out toward it.

“That light,” Her lips formed the words, but she could not tell if she gave them voice. “I feel like I should run away, but…”

“You _should_ run away!” For the first time, the voice seemed uncertain, panicked even as it spoke from behind her shoulder. “If it catches you, it will devour you! Everything you love about yourself will be destroyed, just like it was for the Burned Man!”

“I…I…” The light was growing nearer, a beacon in the darkness, and Felina found that she could now see the faint outline of her hands in front of her, gleaming wetly with her tears. She did not move however, paralyzed by the choice that now lay before her. Why was it such a difficult one?

A sudden thought occurred to her. “Who _are_ you?”

She turned around and screamed.

* * *

 

“White Bird!”

Daniel burst into the chieftain’s cave, his eyes blazing. White Bird crouched by the fire, feeding the flames with small, white flowers. The thick smoke filled the cave, and Daniel coughed at its sharp scent. Across from the tribal sat Felina in a near-catatonic state. By her foot lay a cup on its side, and a spilled puddle that was now seeping into the dirt floor.

“What have you done?” The New Canaanite gave the kettle a hefty kick that knocked it from its hook, sending the contents pouring over the fire in a cacophony of hissing. Clouds of steam billowed up from the now-soggy coals. “How many times have I advised against this awful practice?”

“I have granted the outlander our wisdom,” White Bird replied, rising to confront the other man, his expression a mixture of confusion and indignation. “She wished to know our way, and so I showed her.”

“If your way means deliberately poisoning yourself, then your way is wrong!” Daniel crouched before Felina as Joshua, Waking Cloud, and Follows-Chalk appeared in the entrance. “Joshua, take that kettle and fill it with clean water. There’s no telling what effect the datura is having on her.”

The Burned Man knew that if he looked at Felina in her current state, he would not be able to leave her. He kept his gaze averted, grabbing the soot-stained kettle and hurrying from the cave.

“Filly-na, Filly-na, it is us!” Chalk waved a hand in front of the Courier’s face, but she did not respond, did not even blink. Her gaze was blank and unfocused, and she did not react when Daniel tilted her head back, placing a palm to her brow.

Waking Cloud went to stand beside White Bird, concern etched upon her brow. Momentarily forgotten by Daniel, the Sorrows chieftain bent his head to murmur to her in their own tongue, and her gaze turned a little sadder, but she responded with a nod.

Joshua returned with the kettle, and Daniel took it, testing the temperature with his hand. “Chalk, stand back,” he ordered.

Gripping the kettle with both hands, the New Canaanite dashed the contents full into Felina’s face.

* * *

 

Felina choked on her scream, clutching at her throat. The approaching light reflected on the blade of a long skinning knife, on a pair of dark glasses, in two canine eyes. The sordid, cunning visage that haunted her nightmares, the death of hopes and dreams.

“You—” The Courier’s voice rattled in her throat, “You’re not here. You’re back in the Mojave—”

To her insisting, the Fox only smiled, giving a slight tilt of his hooded head. “Sweet _puella,_ why so hostile? You were agreeable enough a few moments ago.”

“That was—that was before I saw who you were!” Felina hated how small her voice was made in her terror. How pathetic that excuse sounded, how pathetic she sounded!

The Fox’s smile faded. His gaze was hidden behind his glasses, but the dog’s eyes above them glared into the depth of her soul. “Does knowing my identity make my words any less true?”

The light was growing nearer. Unstoppable, unhindered, it pressed upon Felina’s back like a solid wall. But she did not turn to it, her horror-filled gaze fixed on the one before her. Horror, because he was right—knowing the truth of him did not make her hate his words. Though every rational thought screamed to find him loathsome, it was though a deeper part of her knew and did not care.

“Choose me,” The Fox urged, “before I choose you. All roads lead to me in the end.”

He looked over her shoulder, and his face twisted in a snarl, made all the more hideous for the fear it contained. “Make your choice! It is upon you even now!”

Then light was all around them, washing over them. The Fox roared, but his voice was filled with pain, and the light shining in the darkness drowned him out. Felina collapsed, blinded by the brightness that pierced through every sense, deafened by the cacophony of the Fox and of voices calling her name.

“Felina—Felina!”

The Courier jerked, inhaling a sharp gasp as her motor functions returned all at once. Her flailing hands likely would have clocked Daniel a good one had he not caught them.

“Felina, it’s us!” Daniel gripped her wrists, forcing her to look into his eyes. “It’s only us! You’re safe!”

Felina stared at him, gasping, water gathering in frigid beads to drip from her face, from her hair.

The light was gone. So was the Fox. Perhaps they had never been.

“I—I—” Droplets streaked down her cheeks, and they were not cold.

“You don’t have to explain anything,” Daniel soothed, the calloused pads of his thumbs rubbing circles into her knuckles. “If anything, it’s my fault for not warning you. Can you stand?”

Shivering from cold and from what she had just experienced, it took Felina several tries before she could manage to get her feet under her. She stood, swaying slightly, but with Daniel’s arm around her waist, she did not fall. Joshua flanked her other side, ready to help if need be.

“White Bird,” Daniel said as they passed, “I will speak with you in the morning.”

“As you will,” Was the Sorrows’ chieftain’s only reply, watching as the little group left the smoky cave into the fresh night air.

* * *

 

“She’ll be alright, then?”

The fire in Half-Mouse cave was burning low as Daniel left Felina’s side to rejoin the Burned Man, the Courier having at last fallen into an exhausted slumber. Nearby lay Chalk, who had succumbed to sleep after a valiant effort to stay by her side.

“I think so.” Daniel placed his hat on the ground beside himself, running a hand through his dark hair. “I don’t think the dosage was high enough to be especially toxic. It’s one of the… _less constructive_ aspects of Sorrows culture that I’ve been trying to lead them away from.”

Joshua glanced up from his reading. “Speaking of which, how’s your ministering going?”

“It’s…” Daniel’s brow furrowed as he considered his answer. “It’s going. I’ve recently realized that the Sorrows think the Father I’m referring to is their Father in the Caves. I’ve been trying to clarify the issue, but so far Waking Cloud is the only one I’ve gotten to see that they are not the same.”

“At least you’re making progress,” Joshua tried to reassure his brother. “The Dead Horses ask many questions, but rarely do any of them commit. To them, I am their war chief, not a fellow sojourner, which makes it difficult to have real conversations with them. On top of all that, they knew me…before.”

He lapsed into somber silence, and Daniel knew shame was crushing down upon him, as it always did when he looked back at the Malpais Legate.

“Perhaps I could come over there,” He suggested, trying to cheer Graham up. “Bring Waking Cloud as an example, try and get things rolling.”

The Burned Man considered this. “I’d hate to keep you from your own ministry,” He murmured, “especially in such dangerous times, but…I see no other way.”

“Then it’s decided,” Daniel said. “Once Felina is recovered, Waking Cloud and I will accompany you back to the Dead Horses camp.”

“Thank you, brother.” At her mention, Joshua gave an unconscious glance over to Felina’s sleeping bulk.

Daniel followed his gaze, and for several seconds weighed the repercussions.

“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” He finally commented. “I’m glad for you.”

For a heartbeat, Joshua did not move. Then he turned his gaze back to his reading and would not look at the other New Canaanite. “Whatever you’re insinuating, it isn’t there,” he said brusquely. “The Courier is a friend and ally. Nothing more.”

Daniel leaned forward, an eyebrow arched incredulously. “Come on, Joshua, I know you better than that. The way you look at her, I’ve never seen you look that way at anyone.”

Joshua snapped his book shut and laid it aside. He matched Daniel’s posture, leaning forward to glare at the other man across the fire. “How then do I look at her?” He inquired, his voice deceptively level.

The New Canaanite was used to the Burned Man’s temperaments, and thus did not react to his defensiveness. He only thought for a moment, then said, “When you look at her, you both dread and long for her. For you fear that only sorrow can follow.”

Silence reigned in the cave. For a moment and a forever, neither spoke, and neither moved. Graham stared into the dying coals, unwilling to meet his brother’s eyes.

“I think you love her,” Daniel said with all gentleness, “But you are afraid.”

An almost-imperceptible shudder passed through Graham’s form. The deepest secret of his heart was laid bare, read like an open book. Only Daniel knew him so, and he both hated and wondered at his brother’s perception.

When Joshua finally spoke, his voice was scarcely above a whisper. “I do not want to love her. I will burn her if I do.”

“Then give up the flame.”

The Burned Man’s head snapped up. _“Give up_ the fire of the Holy Spirit?”

“Joshua.” Daniel met the other man’s gaze with matching intensity. “This fire you feel, it consumes you from the inside out. It has brought you nothing but pain, and you really, truly believe it is of the Lord?”

“I do.”

Another silence followed. Then Joshua said, “You don’t believe me.”

“I don’t, Joshua, and frankly I don’t think you believe yourself. Every good and perfect gift comes from God. This does not mean that we will not know pain, but can you not see that, in the eternal workings of the Lord, all pain is swept away and becomes nothing at all?”

“I see it,” Graham replied, “I saw it all too clearly as I fell into the Grand Canyon. But that was then, and this is now. Since my return to God, nothing but pain has followed. Brief joy, yes, then it is swallowed up by more pain, more sorrow. Sometimes I find myself wondering if God did not change his mind, and that he is now actively seeking to drive me away from him.”

Daniel’s gaze saddened. “You know that’s not how it works. Pain, either causing or experiencing it, has ruled your life for so long, you’ve forgotten how to give it over to God. And now it is keeping you from the possibility of loving. As such, I will repeat myself: give up the flame.”

“It’s not that simple,” Joshua growled.

“It is that simple. But simple doesn’t mean easy or quick.”

Daniel sighed then, rubbing his tired eyes. “I don’t want to fight with you again over this. Just…pray on it, please. Waking Cloud and I will pray for you also.”

The Burned Man gave no answer. He sat long after Daniel had gone to bed, staring into the last flickering embers of the fire, as still and silent as death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this chapter. Nothing tells you how well you've developed a character like being forced to pick them apart, eh??
> 
> Next chapter: soul-searching and story time!
> 
> Side note: if anyone's interested, [I made an art blog!](https://theribbajack.tumblr.com/) It's still very much a WIP, but I've posted some Fallout-related stuff, and plan to add more as I go along.


	9. My Face, You'll Never See No More

Dawn’s first gentle rays cleared the peaks of Zion, their warmth chasing away the chill of the night. Creeping patiently down the red rock cliffs, they eventually illuminated the figure of Felina, in the shelter of a rocky overhang beside a lone tree.

The Courier sat upon the ground, stretching, and thinking, and stretching, and thinking. The previous night’s events continued to haunt her. Had what she had seen been a mere hallucination, a nightmare contrived by her drug-addled mind? Perhaps a lingering side-effect of her head injuries, brain damage presenting her nightmares as reality?

Extending her legs out straight before her, Felina leaned forward until her furrowed brow rested upon her knees. No matter how she tried to convince herself otherwise, the truth of what she had seen—what she had nearly given into—was all too clear. Had she given in to the light, accepted its help, thus giving her life away forever?

She swore under her breath, sitting upright again and swinging one leg around into a split, hoping the ache of her straining muscles would drown out the recollection of that light. It didn’t. Instead, the pain only seemed to intensify the memory.

Guilt weighed heavy upon her shoulders. As much as she would have liked to deny it, she had nearly given into the Fox, and likely would have, if not for the light’s intervention. It was only the Fox’s form she had trained herself to hate, not his ideals. She was, in a way, no better than Joshua, who instead of showing no mercy in Caesar’s name, now showed no mercy in God’s name. How gullible she had been to give in, how arrogant she had been to think she could not be tempted! How close had she been to becoming a vixen herself?

And the worst implication of all, could Joshua and Daniel be _right?_

But her heart only shrugged. After all, she had rejected the Fox in the end. And that was the end of it, right? Even if the light was real and a god did exist, be it Joshua’s or some other, she didn’t need it to tell her how to be a good person. Thanks for the help, see you around. She could continue on her merry way. Besides, she had bigger fish to fry, like the problem of the White Legs, and getting home to the Mojave.

“Outlander?”

The voice was a welcome derailment to her train of thought. Felina looked over to see Waking Cloud approaching up the rocky path.

“Waking Cloud,” The Courier greeted her, standing and dusting off her jeans. “What’s up?”

For several moments, the tribal woman was silent, and Felina wondered if she’d said something wrong.

Then Waking Cloud said, “You wished to know the stories of our people, yes?”

“Uh…” Felina hesitated, as White Bird had said something similar the previous night. But Waking Cloud seemed less interested in serving her spiked tea, so she answered, “Yeah, I’m still curious about that little shrine behind the waterfall. But you don’t have to tell me if it’s, like, a secret for your tribe only.”

Waking Cloud shook her head. “It is not a secret to outlanders, only those we do not trust. But you have taken our wisdom. We can trust you now.”

“Yeah, uh, thanks,” Felina mentally kicked herself at her articulate response. Unfortunately, her self-reprimand did not translate into something more eloquent than, “Your wisdom is…really something, alright.”

Waking Cloud, as usual, did not seem to notice her lack of coherency. She only said, “Follow me,” and turned back down the rocky path without looking to see if Felina did so.

The tribal woman did not speak as she led Felina down the path, across the stream, and towards the tumbling waterfall. Silent as a cloud moving to cover the sun, she slipped behind the falling waters, and vanished into the crack in the rock face.

For a heartbeat, Felina hesitated. Whatever she was about to hear, it was important. This was her last chance to turn back…but from what?

In the end, curiosity won over. Squaring her shoulders, Felina passed behind the waterfall and ducked into the cave.

The little shrine appeared unchanged. The yao guai skull still grinned its eerie grin, datura flowers blooming from bleached eye sockets. The tiny candles cast flickering light across Waking Cloud’s face.

“It is a sad story, the story of this place,” She said as Felina joined her in kneeling before the lonely shrine. “I do not like to tell it, but I must honor White Bird’s request.

“Many years ago, a girl lived among this tribe. She was curious, much like you, and clever, and her mother had a devil’s time keeping her out of trouble. One day, the girl slipped away from camp and went to play in the caves nearby. But the girl did not know that—that a yao guai slept in that cave.”

Waking Cloud’s voice cracked, and she halted. The flickering candles shone bright in her eyes.

“It’s okay,” Felina said softly, “You can stop anytime.”

The tribal woman took a shaky breath and continued. “The girl died. The screams of the mother were heard throughout Zion. Mad with grief, she took up her gauntlet, and would have gone alone to the cave to slay the beast, had she not been stopped.”

She halted again, her head bowed under the weight of the memories. Felina could only imagine the sound of a mother’s agony, rebounding in echoes through the towering cliffs.

“The tribe wept,” Waking Cloud went on, “for the girl had died before her naming day, and her ghost would remain restless and wandering upon the earth. Many hunters have tried to slay the beast, but it always drove them off or eluded them. White Bird has said that since the beast consumed the girl, the two became one, forever living, forever dying. So we called it the Ghost of _She,_ for the child had no name to be called.”

The yao guai skull grinned at the woman, who closed her eyes against its accusing stare. “It is a sad story,” She finished, “It is our story. And the Ghost of _She_ walks among us still.”

Felina shivered, but she could not tell why. As though her mind was trying to recall something, but the memory had been suppressed.

“Can’t you, like, perform the naming ceremony anyway?” She asked cautiously, “I’m sure the mother, whoever she was, had a name picked out, right?”

But Waking Cloud shook her head. “That is not our way. Even if the mother did have a name, the child died before it could be received. A child who dies nameless may well have never existed at all. And the mother shall never bear children again, for her grief is too great.”

“Oh.” Felina stared down at her lap, feeling slightly awkward. “I’m sorry. No parent should have to bury their child.”

The tribal woman nodded sadly. “After the girl died, many of us cried out to the Father in the Caves, asking him why we must know such sorrow. But we received no answer. When Daniel came, and taught us the way of his Father, some of us have asked him the same.”

“Did you get a response?”

Waking Cloud was silent, but Felina thought she knew what the answer was.

After a long silence, the Sorrows woman took a deep, shuddering breath. “Now you know our story. It is a dreadful honor, but it is yours now, as it is ours.”

As they left the cave, Felina looked down the streambank to the trail leading to White Bird’s den. “Daniel said he wanted to talk to White Bird in the morning,” she recalled. “Is he in there now?”

“Yes,” Waking Cloud nodded. “They have been talking since before sunrise. Both of them are very set in their ways, and I do not expect they will come out until afternoon.”

Felina frowned. “You don’t think things will get too heated?”

“I do not think so. Daniel and White Bird have great respect for one another, even though they disagree on much. It is an admirable thing.”

“Cool.” Felina was mildly impressed at this—certainly, there were more than a few folks back in the Mojave who could learn a thing or two from the tribals.

“Courier?”

The heads of both women turned to see Joshua approaching. He dipped his head politely to Waking Cloud, then turned to Felina.

“We’re going back to the Dead Horses camp today,” He informed her, “Once Daniel finishes talking with White Bird, he and Waking Cloud are coming too.”

Felina nodded. “Where’s Chalk? Did he party a little too hard last night?”

“It seems so,” Amusement tinged the Burned Man’s reply. “He was still asleep last I checked. If he isn’t up by noon, he may have to go with Daniel and Waking Cloud—I want to reach the Eastern Virgin by dusk.”

* * *

 

Morning shadows crept slowly down the red cliffs, warm rays finally reaching into the furthest corners of the Sorrows camp. Felina occupied herself with listening to more tales from Waking Cloud, meeting some of the other Sorrows, and disassembling her pistol to clean the grit from its parts as the sun slowly made its way overhead. Still, neither White Bird nor Daniel emerged from the chieftain’s cave.

“Felina, come on. Chalk will have to catch up with Daniel and Waking Cloud.”

The Courier got to her feet, re-inserting the magazine into her pistol and holstering it. Joshua handed over her shotgun before shouldering his own pack, and together the two splashed down the stream and out of the Narrows, crossing the sandbar into greater Zion.

“We may get some rain,” The Burned Man noted, eyeing the dark clouds that were beginning to drift over the western peaks. “If we do, it would be better to find shelter. Rain here isn’t radioactive, but the damp does my bandages no favors.”

“I can’t remember the last time I saw rain,” Felina commented, then laughed, realizing her word choice. “Literally. This is the first time I’ve left the Mojave since I lost my memories.”

The two continued in amicable silence for a while, stepping over potholes that marred the ruined road, both keeping an eye on the surrounding terrain, watchful for White Legs or hostile wildlife. They passed the occasional Old World structure, standing silent and empty along the roadside, or looming like a ghostly sentinel bound to service atop some distant hill. Wind rattled the skeletal bushes that bordered the roadside, cool with the promise of rain. The only other sound was the muted thump of boots upon pavement.

Felina, walking a pace or two behind Joshua, found her thoughts wandering as she idly gazed at the back of his vest. He and Daniel were almost complete opposites, united only in their belief in God. If they had faced the Fox, as she had under the effects of the datura, how would they each have reacted? Would Joshua have felt pulled back to his life as the Malpais Legate? He struggled with that enough even on just a daily basis, and she remembered that even Chalk sometimes wondered if his old self was truly dead.

Was the Legate only beaten back, waiting to return stronger than before?

Her train of thought was interrupted when she realized that Joshua had stopped, and was resting a hand on his pistol.

“What is it?” Felina asked, keeping her voice low. Joshua did not respond right away, instead beckoning her to follow and darting to the roadside to crouch behind a ruined car. He peered around the rusted bumper as Felina joined him.

“White Legs,” He growled, “They’re blocking the bridge up ahead. Looks like about seven of them.”

The Courier peeked cautiously around his bulk. The road ahead took a slight downhill, the pavement breaking off into a rickety wooden bridge spanning the river below. On their side of the gap, a few painted figures could be spotted, though they blended in with the rocks so well that it took Felina a moment to see them.

“They’re just sitting there,” She whispered in confusion, “What are they trying to do?”

“Whatever they’re doing, they won’t be for much longer,” Joshua said decisively. He started to move out from behind the car, but Felina instinctively grabbed his bandaged wrist, halting him. Her action surprised her even more than Joshua, but she shook it away.

“We don’t need to fight them,” She insisted. “There’s another bridge, isn’t there? There’s no need for bloodshed, and they outnumber us.”

The Burned Man held her gaze for several tense heartbeats, irritation and anger flashing in his crystalline eyes. He looked down at the White Legs again and growled low in his throat. The sound sent a shiver down Felina’s spine.

“As you wish,” He finally gritted, wrenching his arm free and cutting off the road.

Felina could practically see the thundercloud above the Burned Man’s head as he led her across the rocky terrain at a pace so brisk she almost had to trot to keep up. Couldn’t he see that the odds of two against seven were not stacked especially high in their favor?

“Look, Joshua,” She tried to reason with him, “I know you don’t like the White Legs—trust me, I’m not fond of them either, but does—"

“Courier, I am not in the mood for arguing,” Joshua cut her off without looking back, “I hear enough sentiments like yours from Daniel. The only way to ensure that Zion is safe is to exterminate them, bar none.”

Felina was silent, and Joshua felt a pang of guilt for having snapped at her, but he pushed it down, focusing instead on putting one foot in front of the other. Even so, he could feel her stare drilling into his back with almost as much intensity as the flames of irritation that pulsed through his veins.

The sky was almost fully overcast by the time the pair crested a small rise and beheld ruined road once again. The river snaked its way through the red rock, and the bridge that spanned it was similar to the first, only noticeably White Leg-free.

“All we can do is hope Daniel, Chalk and Waking Cloud see the White Legs in time,” Joshua remarked, “Which wouldn’t have been a problem if we had dealt with them when we had the element of surprise on our side.”

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to trust their judgement, won’t we?” Felina ignored the accusing sting in his voice and slid down the embankment onto the shattered pavement. The Burned Man followed, assessing the rickety planks ahead. This particular bridge was little-used, and with good reason—being lower to the water’s surface, it had been subjected to rot far quicker than its higher kin. They would have to take care when crossing.

Felina had put one foot on the wooden planks when she halted so suddenly that Joshua ran into her. Her eyes were the size of saucers as she lurched back, stumbling against his bulk. “What is it?” Joshua demanded, “What do you see?”

The Courier’s throat had closed in on itself, but that could not stop the tidal wave of pure, abject terror that surged up from every fiber of her being, bursting from her lips with all the force of a shotgun blast.

_“She!”_ Felina screamed, “The Ghost of _She!”_

Then Joshua saw it too, and the Burned Man, who had faced his death in silence, gave a shout of horror. For _She_ stood on the other side of the bridge, and it was no ghost.

Burned Man and Courier saw it as all but those who have mothered saw the beast. It stood like a yao guai, nine feet tall at the shoulder, colossal and full of power. Its four enormous paws could have taken a man's head off with a single swipe, each tipped with five curved claws that were the strength and sharpness of steel. Flames leapt across its hide, but they could not hide its dreadful eyes, which burned with a deeper fire above a maw filled with black, jagged fangs.

Joshua caught Felina’s arm in his grip and dragged her off the road. Felina scrabbled down an embankment, crashing through a small clump of scrubby bushes, heedless of the prickles that tore at her pant legs. She did not care. Her only thought was to escape, and not to fall beneath the flaming claws of Zion’s Bane.

Suddenly, _She_ was before them, not behind. Felina screamed and skidded to a halt so quickly that she sat down on the hard earth. Joshua however drew his weapon, spinning it around to grip it by the barrel, and lunged with a roar. But _She_ only swatted him away with the back of one massive paw, sending him tumbling down the hill. Zion’s Bane did not turn to follow, but instead fixed its dreadful eyes on Felina.

The Courier pushed herself upright, her breath rasping in her throat, and fled back up the embankment. All thought was crushed under the weight of fear. She knew Zion’s Bane pursued, though there came not a sound behind her. She knew it with the surety of doom.


	10. I Am Weary (Let Me Rest)

Kore sat cross-legged upon a broad rock slab, staring into empty space. Her partially-woven basket sat forgotten in her lap, and the sound of Salt-Upon-Wounds barking commands to his subordinates nearby went unnoticed. Ever flowed the river before her, and she wished that it would sweep the memory of that morning far and away.

_Kill the outlander,_ Salt-Upon-Wounds had said to the waiting beast. _This time, there will be no mistakes._

Zion’s Bane had turned its burning eyes to Kore then, as though waiting for her to protest. But she had not, though she was certain it read the pain upon her face. So it had bowed, as much to her as to Salt-Upon-Wounds, and departed as silently as death.

Now the dark-skinned woman only sat. She had long ago trained herself not to know sadness, but now the feeling was eating away at her carefully-constructed barriers like a chick breaking from its egg, just as the sight of Zion’s Bane stirred pity in her heart. She had failed him. The outlander who had shaped his future would perish, without him ever knowing what had become of her.

That outlander…that _courier._

* * *

 

Her breath sobbing in her throat, Felina ran. Rock and gorse passed unheeded beneath her feet, and she did not know or care if she was running straight into a mantis hive or a gecko den. She would rather face a hundred deathclaws than that which pursued her.

The first few drops of rain began to fall as she darted into a narrow gully, a tiny stream winding its way through the base of a ravine perhaps twenty feet high. The space was so narrow that Felina could have almost put out her arms and touched either side of the strata-layered wall. But she continued through in the desperate that her pursuer would not be able to fit through the gap, stumbling to a halt when the rock walls broadened out.

Felina stood panting, every sense on high alert, scarcely noticing the frigid stream water that soaked her toes. The overcast sky made the canyon dark with shadows. Zion’s Bane was near, she knew with utmost certainty. But where?

Wiping sweat and raindrops from her brow, she pressed on upstream once more.

And there stood _She_ , gazing down upon her without pity or anger, its maw full of obsidian fangs mere inches from her face.

Felina screamed and fell back, landing in the stream with a splash. Zion’s Bane stood over her, razor claws preparing to tear her heart from her breast. Felina cried out and closed her eyes, waiting for death.

But the blow did not fall.

Felina became aware of a scattering of rocks somewhere nearby, as though something had just slid down the side of the gully. The sound was jarring in the otherwise-silent air. Was it more White Legs, come to finish the job?

Trembling, she opened her eyes. Zion’s Bane remained over her, but it was not looking at her. Instead its gaze was fixed on something behind her.

Craning her neck around, Felina saw a pair of brown, bare feet, almost eclipsed by the shadows of the ravine. She could make out no identity from the shade, but she heard a voice, low but powerful, speak.

“Away from here, nameless child. You shame yourself and your people.”

Zion’s Bane screamed.

It was not a scream that could be compared to anything Felina knew, for it was not sound. It was a flash like a thousand suns, an earthquake to shatter the world. It was a globe of fire where once had been life and love uncounted, a black rain falling like helpless tears. It was the whole of sorrow and despair that could have and should have been prevented. It was death, the destroyer of worlds.

Then it was gone.

Felina lay trembling, heedless of the icy water soaking into her clothes or the raindrops pattering upon her, her mind full of the echoes of that scream. Her breath hitched as a hand rested upon her shoulder, but its touch was gentle. Still incoherent, Felina allowed the stranger to draw her into an embrace, tender fingers combing through her tangled hair.

Then she heard the song. It was low and soft, flowing over her as gently as the rain that pattered down, soothing her racing heart and chasing away all terror. It was not in a language Felina knew, but translated, it might have resembled this:

 

_“Beyond the red rock mountains tall_

_Upon the barren prairie_

_I leave a light upon the sill_

_To wait for your return_

_So long ago I met you there_

_You followed in my steps_

_I stumbled, and you felt the pain_

_Of my forgotten sins_

 

_Beside the patient river’s flow_

_In the shadow of the hills_

_My bright and shining morning sun_

_Won’t you come home to me?”_

It was strange and it was lovely, and Felina looked up with wonder into the dark eyes of Waking Cloud.

“Say nothing of this to anyone,” said she.

* * *

 

The clouded skies were beginning to darken over Zion as the two women reached the Eastern Virgin. Their arrival was heralded by the shout of a Dead Horse sentry, prompting Daniel to look up from his reading. The rain had passed, and so he sat beside the fire, anxiously awaiting their arrival.

“Waking Cloud, what happened?” The New Canaanite demanded, leaping upright as the mud-splattered pair splashed onto the bank. “You took off running like you were being chased by a swarm of cazadors!”

“Forgive me, Daniel,” The tribal woman replied, “The outlander was in danger.”

She said nothing more, and Daniel opened his mouth to press further, but something in her gaze warned him not to. Instead, he turned to Felina, “Joshua told me you encountered Salt-Upon-Wounds’ beast,” he said. “I suppose this is what the tribals mean when they speak of Zion’s Bane, then?”

Felina nodded, shivering at the memory. “Yes. It’s the same monster that attacked my caravan. I guess Salt-Upon-Wounds wanted to make sure the job was finished, but…I managed to escape.”

Daniel looked back and forth between the two women, neither of whom could meet his gaze. It was obvious they were both hiding something. But he did not voice his suspicions, only saying, “Well, by the grace of God, you’re both alright.”

“Felina!”

The awkward standoff was broken as Joshua appeared from Angel Cave. His clothes were still dusty from his encounter with Zion’s Bane, but otherwise he seemed unharmed. At least, he fairly ran across the bank with the haste of one not badly wounded. Before Felina could even greet him, she found one side of her face encased by a bandaged hand, the other gripping upon her shoulder as the Burned Man peppered her with questions. “Are you alright? What was that thing? How did you escape?”

“I, uh—” Felina was still trying to process the presence of his hand upon her cheek, the warmth of his palm, the scratchy texture of the bandages. To her own surprise, she found that it felt…rather nice.

As though realizing his own action, and the fact that Daniel was watching them with interest, Joshua dropped his hold as though she was made of hot iron. He stepped back, clearing his throat awkwardly, but his eyes retained their concern as he asked again, “Are you alright?”

“Filly-na!”

Last to arrive was Follows-Chalk, the gangly tribal elbowing his way past Daniel and Joshua to nearly knock Felina down with an enthusiastic hug. “You are okay! Joshua said you were attacked by a monster, and I was very worried!”

Felina laughed, grateful for his arrival to ease the tension. “Hey, Chalk. Yeah, I’m fine—no monster can keep me down for long. Is there any food? Being chased by demon bears works up an appetite.”

Together the little group made their way into Angel Cave, and the canyon watched as evening shadows swallowed them up.

* * *

 

Daniel glanced up as Joshua eased himself down across the fire. Exhaustion weighed heavily on the Burned Man’s shoulders, and showed in his hands, fumbling to unwind the bandages from his arms. Felina, Chalk and Waking Cloud had long-since gone to bed, leaving the New Canaanites as the only ones still up.

“Doing alright?” Daniel inquired, watching as the white fell away from his brother’s arm to expose the charred flesh beneath, like a glamour dissolving to reveal the ugly truth.

“I’m fine,” Was Joshua’s short reply, hardly noticing or caring how canned the response sounded. His arm burned as though wrapped with searing brands, but he only laid aside the dusty bandages and began winding a new roll about the limb. He could feel Daniel’s eyes on him, and though he did not mind being watched by his brother, he knew when the other New Canaanite had something on his mind. “If you’re going to say something, say it.”

Daniel gave a soft laugh. “You know me so well. I was thinking about two things—how much Caesar has outdone himself on this, using a local legend to try and get at you. I don’t know how he’s done it, but the Ghost of _She_ is certainly going to be a challenge, no matter what route we take going forward.”

Joshua grunted in agreement, tying off the bandages and starting on the other arm. “And the other thing?”

“Just that I’m glad you and Felina are both alright after your encounter today. I’ve never seen you so worried, or as glad as when you saw her and Waking Cloud arriving.”

The Burned Man thought he knew where the conversation was going. “If you’re going to bring up how you think I love her again, don’t bother,” he said gruffly. “I care for her no more than I care for you or any of the Dead Horses.”

A smile creased Daniel’s face. “Yes, I’m sure that after a near-death experience, you would have taken my face as though I was made of porcelain,” he teased. “As flattering as the idea is, I’m quite sure that, while you care deeply about us both, you don’t feel nearly the same way about her as you do me.”

“Very well, point taken,” Joshua growled, heat that was not the flames rising in his face as he freed the last bandage from his arm with an irate tug. “I am dealing with it.”

“How?” Daniel pressed, his expression turning serious. “You say that like it’s supposed to reassure me. It doesn’t. Love is one of God’s greatest gifts to us; it’s why he gave us his Son. I don’t understand why you insist on denying it.”

“Well, look at me!” Joshua snapped, before remembering that others slept nearby and lowering his voice. He held up his partially-wrapped arm, tendons standing out like cords against the ruined flesh. “I am burned, both physically and spiritually. You don’t know the countless atrocities I committed before I came crawling back to God, like a dog begging for forgiveness.”

Here he gestured with the charred limb over to where Felina slept upon the bighorner hide, but he would not look over at her. “And here comes this woman, who does not believe in God, and yet she lives a more godly life than I. If I let myself love her, she will become like me, a burned-out husk of a human who doggedly refuses to stop following a God who only seems to get more distant. She…she doesn’t deserve that.”

He might have gone on, but his voice was becoming increasingly fragile, so he only sat, unable to meet Daniel’s gaze, his ruined fist clenching and unclenching in his lap.

“Joshua…” Daniel’s dark eyes were bright with tears at the pain that showed all too clearly in his brother’s hunched figure. “You know that in the eyes of God, you in your burning are no more or less broken than she in her unbelief. I won’t let you dig yourself into this pit because you think you’re too far gone, that you’re so broken even God can’t fix you. Thoughts like that are the very reason you spent those thirty years as the Malpais Legate.”

“What if all this is just a test?” The Burned Man demanded. “What if God is testing me to see if I deserve him? I did not burn until I tried to come back to God. Only when I’m worthy enough, then…then the flames will finally stop.”

“Joshua, you’ll never deserve God,” Daniel said, and Joshua visibly flinched, as though the words were a physical blow. “The only thing you deserve, just like me, just like Felina, just like every human who ever lived, is to burn in hell for eternity. The only way to avoid that is by laying your sin—the Legate, the flames, everything—at the foot of the cross. You know this.”

The New Canaanite gazed at his brother across the fire, but there was no condemnation in his eyes, only sorrow. ”It’s a sad truth, and a painful one, but that is the depth of grace.”

“No. “ Joshua shook his head and stood, unable to bear the other man’s words or his gaze. “No. Some distances just can’t be reached across.”

As he retreated into the dark of the cave, he heard Daniel speak once more, so soft that he could barely discern the words.

“But why are you distant? The veil is torn.”

For a heartbeat, Joshua halted, almost turning back. Then he continued, desperately trying to ignore the shuddering of his soul.

* * *

 

Across Zion, darkness also fell across the Three Marys, and brought with it the night’s chill. The White Legs settled down for bed, the last patrols splashing into the winding canyon. And if any of them felt a sudden, deeper cold that chilled their very bones as it passed, they did not show it.

Kore lifted the tent flap, feeling the presence of Zion’s Bane. It approached along the riverbank, leaving no track in the soft sand, its body shivering with flames. But her eyes beheld only the slight figure of a child, its hair cut close to the scalp, clad in ragged skins. Vicious claw marks scored its form, jagged wounds marring an appearance that was already so frail. It should have been innocent. But it was Salt-Upon-Wounds’ slave.

“Did you do it?” Kore asked.

Zion’s Bane did not reply, and Kore turned her gaze away from its face with a sudden fear. For it was a being that could not know pain, and yet she saw a world of pain upon its face.

But it only said, **Mother, will you name me?**

Kore’s heart broke for the piteous, dreadful thing. She shook her head wordlessly, pushing the tent flap fully aside and sitting cross-legged upon the dirt. After a moment’s hesitation, she held out her arms.

For several heartbeats, _She_ did not move. It edged a step forward, its expression unreadable. Then it crossed the remaining distance and climbed into Kore’s lap, its head resting upon her breast.

Behind in the tent, unknown to the dark-skinned woman, Salt-Upon-Wounds watched in horror as the monstrous yao guai slowly, gently laid its massive head in the woman’s lap. The flames that had covered it from head to toe were extinguished, and it lay before the tent as black as a lump of coal.

The tribal chieftain reached for his power fist.

Kore held the child in her arms, scarcely daring to breath. It was not warm, and she felt no heartbeat from it, but even so she caressed the fine hairs of its scalp with all the gentleness she had once given her own child. Tears pricked at her eyes as her fingers skated lightly across its neck, and the cruel chains wrapped there. How heartless was she, saying nothing when she could have told it the truth!

“Kore.”

The woman’s heart sank at the voice behind her. She looked back and saw Salt-Upon-Wounds’ hand hovering over a device affixed to his gauntlet. His eyes were wide and white in the dim light.

“Put that thing away from you,” He ordered her, his voice urgent. “Don’t want you to get hurt.”

Zion’s Bane would not hurt her, Kore knew, unless under direct command from Salt-Upon-Wounds, and he would never do so. She could not make herself push the creature from her lap, but it rose of its own accord, fixing its gaze on the chieftain as he approached.

“A name is a powerful thing to hold,” He said to it, his voice low and dangerous. “I will not hesitate to use yours against you, if you try to harm Kore or me. Remember that, beast.”

_She_ gave no reply. It only bowed, flames consuming it once more, and departed as silently as it had come.

“What were you thinking?” Salt-Upon-Wounds demanded, drawing the tent flap to shut out the cold and turning to Kore. “Gift from Caesar that beast may be, but beast it remains. Unpredictable, dangerous.”

“And lonely,” Kore said almost to herself, still gazing at the tent flap as though to see beyond it into the night-dark canyon. She could still feel the sensation of Zion’s Bane resting its head upon her breast, feel its chains beneath her fingertips.

Salt-Upon-Wounds stepped close to her, taking her face in his hands and turning her gaze to meet his. “Saved you from Caesar,” He said, and in his voice was a softness reserved for no other. “Can’t lose you like this. But the eyes of Caesar are upon me. New Canaan’s death comes first; can’t let anything get in the way.”

He shook his head, pain upon his painted face. “Not even you, beloved. Please, don’t force my hand.”

Kore covered his hands with her own as he leaned down and kissed her. And as she gazed at his power fist upon the table, she knew one thing as surely as she knew his love for her.

Salt-Upon-Wounds did not know the name of Zion’s Bane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was reminded this week that Keith Szarabajka (Joshua Graham's voice actor) was actually in The Dark Knight, in a scene with Heath Ledger's Joker. Specifically, he's the cop guarding the door in the scene where the Joker wants his phone call. I don't bring this up for any real reason, just that I may add an homage to it if I get the chance, because it's actually pretty amazing.


	11. You Got to Go There by Yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay!! It's not even writer's block--I guess I've just been feeling a little burned-out in the writing department. But I do plan on finishing this thing, so don't worry about that, even if updates are a little farther between.

“Filly-na…Filly-na!”

Felina swatted out blindly at the source of the voice that pulled her from a peaceful slumber. To her dismay, her efforts did not dissuade Follows-Chalk, who dodged her hand and continued his insistence. “Wake up, Beautiful Sleeper!”

“What’re you talking about?” Felina mumbled, pulling her coat up to her nose and stubbornly refusing to open her eyes.

“That is the Old World story, yes? The Beautiful Sleeper? Though I must say, you do not look very beautiful right now.”

“Thanks,” Felina grumbled, giving in and scowling blearily up at Chalk’s tattooed face. “And it’s called Sleeping Beauty, dummy. Did I ever tell you the alternate ending, where the prince woke up the princess and got punched in the nose for it, because she was having some nice dreams?”

The low rasp of Joshua’s chuckle nearby only added to her mood. She sat up with a groan, pushing a few tangled strands of hair from her face. “What’s so important that you wake me up at this ungodly hour for?”

Chalk held up two spears and grinned, still undeterred by her grouchiness. “Catching breakfast!”

“Oh, lovely.” Felina shrugged on her coat and rolled her stiff shoulders while Chalk fetched a basket. “Nothing says ‘good morning’ like gutting a gasping fish on a rock.”

She took the young tribal’s offered spear, and together the pair trudged from the cave. Daniel waved at them as they passed from where he sat talking with two Dead Horses.

“Tell me again about the Ghost of _She!”_ Chalk urged as they followed the riverbank upstream.

“What else is there to tell?” Felina said, taking care in her steps over the rocks. “It was huge and terrifying, and I’m lucky I escaped with my life.”

“I bet the civilized lands don’t have anything as nasty as _She,_ do they? I mean, they are civilized!”

“Well…” The Courier frowned. “You’re right, they don’t have anything as nasty as _She,_ but calling the Mojave _civilized_ might be a stretch.”

“But why?” Chalk persisted. “A man once came through here and sang a song about how civilized lands have bright lights and false teeth and doorbells and landlords! I do not know what much of that is, but surely it is good?”

“Uh—” Felina couldn’t help but laugh at this. “That’s all good stuff, I guess, but I was talking more about the people not being civilized.”

“Like Caesar, and the House man?”

“Yeah, those guys. In civilized lands, you eventually find that a lot of the civilized folk are just as bad as people like the White Legs, if not worse. Only difference is, they’re better at hiding it.”

Chalk’s brow furrowed. “Even the En-See-Are?”

“Well…” Felina hesitated, considering her answer. “Them not nearly as much, but kinda, yeah. That’s part of why I like the tribes—you guys tend to be much more genuine.”

“Hm.” The young tribal plodded on, his brow creased in thought. “That is not at all what I thought the civilized lands would be like. Now I am wondering if they are even worth visiting.”

The pair were nearing the fishing hole now, the Virgin River ever-tumbling down the rocks into the wide pool. Felina stabbed her spear into the sandy bank to step out of her boots. “I promise,” she told Chalk as she rolled up her pant legs, “You’re better off staying out here. New Vegas would eat you alive, and I’d hate for that to happen to you.”

Chalk splashed into the chilly water. “Well,” he declared, “I have learned something today! I am sure Joshua will be glad to hear of it.”

Felina joined him, taking up a position a few feet away from him and mirroring his stance, poising her spear above the water’s surface. “You really respect Joshua, don’t you?” She said, keeping up conversation to break the monotony of waiting.

“Oh yes,” Chalk nodded enthusiastically. “He is very strong and very wise. Not so wise as Daniel, but wiser than any of us.”

“You don’t find him a little…hotheaded?” Felina spotted a glimmer of scales beneath the rippling surface and braced herself, waiting for it to come closer. “Eager for a fight?”

“Whatever he does, I am sure he has a good reasoning for it.”

“Everybody _thinks_ they have good reasoning,” Felina countered, “Doesn’t always mean what they do is right. Joshua thinks all his enemies should be killed, bar none. Doesn’t that sound a little extreme?”

“Not very,” Chalk replied. “White Legs are bad people. You almost died because of them, and many others have not been so lucky. Joshua is only protecting the people he cares for.”

The fish Felina had spotted was now within spear range. She stabbed at it, but missed, and it darted away into the depths of the pool’s center. Fuming inwardly, for her bare feet were already starting to lose their feeling, she took up her stance once more. “I get that he’s protective,” She went on to Chalk, “But he’s gotten so irritated every time I suggest that he doesn’t have to hurl himself at every White Leg he comes across. You don’t think his anger goes farther than just being protective?”

She could tell by the tribal’s increasingly long pauses that she was getting to him, but he still continued to defend the Burned Man.

“It is his way,” Chalk said at last. “I am sure he knows what he is doing.”

Felina did not reply, for another fish was drifting within spear range. With a grunt of exertion, she thrust into the water, and this time succeeded, lifting the flopping fish impaled on her spear tip. “Got it!”

“Ooh, nice one!” Chalk grinned, “Your first fish! You are a true tribal now!”

Felina laughed, glowing with pride at her catch, splashing to the bank to deposit it into the basket. She rejoined Chalk after rubbing life back into her numbed feet.

“Joshua will be pleased,” The tribal remarked, his gaze fixed on a particularly large trout drifting just out of spear range.

“Yeah.” To her own surprise, Felina found herself blushing at the thought.

Then she shook her head, her mind leaping on the defensive. No. No! There was no reason for her to be feeling this way. Just the natural need for feeling appreciated, that was all. No other reason. None. She was absolutely _not_ blushing like a schoolgirl over that char-broiled old man with a temper who believed in a god who probably didn’t even exist.

So absorbed was she in her inner denial that she did not notice when Chalk pinned his own catch, lifting the fat trout he had been eyeing from the water and turning to her. “Why is your face red?” He asked.

Damn him, Felina thought, damn him and his utter lack of restraint.

“It’s nothing,” She muttered, staring into the water in the hopes of spotting a fish to distract her, but the rippling depths were momentarily devoid of life. Just her luck.

“Is it about Joshua?” Chalk pressed.

“I said it’s nothing!”

But like a hound tracking a newly-caught scent, the tribal went on, as though each denial was instead confirmation. “I have heard him talking with Daniel. He cares for you very much. Do you?”

“No! I mean, yes, but I don’t _love_ him!”

Chalk smiled mischievously. “I did not say he loves you. What an odd thing for you to say!”

Felina was practically steaming now, and her face had not lost its rosy hue—indeed, it only seemed to be increasing. Her spear hung quite forgotten in her hand as she sputtered, “Oh, my _god,_ you’re such a—why do you even—what business is it—”

Chalk waded to the bank to deposit his fish, thoroughly enjoying watching her valiant attempts to finish a sentence. “Yes, Filly-na?”

“—all this nonsense about me liking Joshua and I don’t see what business it is of I can like who I please and I think you’re just a complete and that’s that!”

Felina halted here, running what she had just said through her mind and trying to figure out if it had made any sense at all. To her recollection, it hadn’t.

Chalk, however, acted as though she had confessed then and there. “I knew it!” He whooped, proceeding to dance about on the sandy bank, waving his spear and shouting in a sing-song voice, “Joshua loves Filly-na, Filly-na loves Joshua!”

At this point, Felina was contemplating jumping into the deep part of the pool and sinking to the very bottom. “Shut _up!”_ She hissed, “Do you want every White Leg in the valley to hear you?”

“Oh, do not worry!” The tribal assured her, a silly grin still pasted all over his face, “I will not say anything to Joshua!”

“Good, because there’s nothing to say!”

Grinding her teeth, Felina fixed her gaze on the rippling waters, determined never to speak to Chalk again.

* * *

 

Unfortunately, Felina’s vow did not hold, but more fortunately, Chalk seemed content to drop the subject as the basket filled with fish. Tramping back along the riverbank, the pair chatted and laughed over civilized ways Chalk thought odd, and tribal ways Felina thought odd. It was only as they rounded the last bend and the Dead Horses camp came into view did Felina remember their conversation.

The Courier balanced the basket of fish on her hip, peeking into Angel Cave with enough caution that she may as well have been entering a bear’s den. The Burned Man was nowhere to be seen however, so she breathed a sigh of relief and approached the firepit.

Setting the basket down beside the coals, Felina straightened, gazing idly at the unoccupied workbench. A small pile of .45 pistols sat to one side, and on the other sat an open book that appeared to be the one Joshua was so fond of reading, and seemed to carry with him everywhere.

Curiosity getting the better of her, Felina rounded the table and skimmed the page. “Damn, that’s a lot of words,” She muttered, squinting to read the tiny print, which was slightly faded from age. What could be so interesting about a dusty old book?

“And when he had thus spoken,” she read softly aloud, “he shewed them—shewed?”

Here she leaned down to make sure she had read it right. “Don’t these guys talk pretty,” she muttered, turning the yellowed page. At the top, the header read _The Gospel According to Saint John_ in large print _._

“I was always a fool for my Johnny,” Felina murmured with a smile. She skimmed the first few verses, which mentioned God about as much as Joshua—which was to say, quite a number of times.

Felina was just about to lose interest and turn away when a line caught her gaze. She squinted to read it fully and stopped short. Before her on the page read, _in him was life, and the life was the light of men._

That in and of itself would not have given her pause, had it not been immediately followed by: _and the light shineth in the darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not._

So much had happened the past couple days that Felina had almost forgotten about her experience in White Bird’s cave, an experience so surreal, and yet one that she could not quite convince herself was the result of a mere drug trip. Now memories came rushing back—the darkness, the whispers, the warm words, and the ever-pursuing light, which was somehow more terrifying than that which it illuminated—the smiling face of the Fox.

Rooted to the spot, Felina stared at the page, her mind working furiously. She hadn’t told anyone what she had seen in White Bird’s cave. And how old was this book? Ancient, surely, even by Old World standards. It had to be a coincidence.

The sound of footsteps broke her from her shock, and she just had time to dart back to the fire as the Burned Man appeared in the entrance. Felina busied herself preparing the fish for gutting, trying not to look at him moving to his workbench. She heard the rustle of a page turning, and the sudden thought occurred to her that she hadn’t put his reading back the way she had found it. A small part of her hoped he wouldn’t notice, but a larger part felt him looking at her, and knew that he had.

“Hoi, Joshua!” Any comment the Burned Man may have been about to make was interrupted as Follows-Chalk entered the cave, hanging his spear on a weapon rack. “Filly-na caught lots of fish!”

“Did she now?” Joshua replied mildly, “That’s good to hear.”

Felina stared down at the mess of fish innards before her, her cheeks flaming. “I just did what Chalk did,” she muttered in embarrassment, using her knife to scoop meat into a blackened frying pan.

“Tell me when the fish is ready!” Chalk said over his shoulder, jogging from the cave once more. “I am hungry!”

“Will do.” Felina finished filling the pan and placed it atop the flames. She stubbornly kept her gaze rooted to the coals, unwilling to even look at Joshua, though her ears told her he had fallen into methodical inspection of pistols. What was he thinking, she wondered to herself. Chalk said he cared for her, which was more than obvious from his display the previous night. But could he, like her, possibly be experiencing the same conflicting emotions?

Her train of thought was broken as a drop of grease spat from the pan, stinging her hand. “Son of a bitch!” She hissed.

“Language, Courier,” Joshua chided without looking up from his inspection.

Felina broke off sucking the place, craning her neck back to glare at him. “Or what?” She challenged, “You’ll pistol-whip me in the name of the Lord?”

The Burned Man spun his magazine-less weapon around to grip it by the barrel and wag it at her threateningly. “If I hear my Dead Horses using any four-letter words they learned from you, I just might,” he replied, and though his tone was laced with amusement, Felina wouldn’t have put it past him to actually follow through.

Footsteps sounded from outside. Felina looked up, ready to tell Chalk the food wasn’t ready yet, but instead saw Daniel standing in the entrance, his expression urgent.

“Joshua, Felina, come outside,” He urged, “There’s something you need to see.”

Felina was more confused than anything, but Joshua’s eyes narrowed. He grabbed his pistol at once and made for the light of day. The Courier took up her shotgun and followed.

Outside, Dead Horses had gathered on the bank, gripping clubs and pistols, all staring at something down the river. Waking Cloud stood beside Daniel at the front of the group, her yao guai gauntlet gripped and ready. Follows-Chalk broke off from the small crowd to join Felina’s side. His tattooed face was grim and worried.

“What’s going on?” Joshua demanded, pushing his way to his fellow New Canaanite’s side.

Daniel did not respond, only pointing. There, wading through the Virgin River and flanked on the clifftops above by two prowling Dead Horses, was a pale, painted figure.

“Is that a White Leg?” Felina asked, squinting to see better. “What’s that he’s holding? A branch?”

“Scouts say he appeared unarmed at the entrance to the Eastern Virgin,” Daniel explained. “Holding only a tree branch. I had hoped he might be coming to announce the White Legs’ surrender.”

“Doubtful,” Joshua growled, his fingers flexing on the hilt of his weapon. “Parley, more like. Salt-Upon-Wounds must be getting impatient.”

The approaching White Leg halted in the water about fifteen feet from the bank, within earshot, but well out of reach. He appeared visibly uncomfortable, surrounded by enemies, with the Burned Man’s glare at the forefront, but he gripped his branch, cleared his throat, and spoke.

“Chieftain Salt-Upon-Wounds requests negotiation with those of New Canaan-That-Was,” He called to the group on the bank. “To discuss terms of—"

“Request denied,” Joshua cut him off abruptly. “We do not treat with Legion dogs.”

“Salt-Upon-Wounds expected this of you, Legate Malpais.” The White Leg said, before taking an involuntary step back as Joshua’s eyes blazed blue fire at his old name. He started to lift his weapon, but Daniel stopped him.

“Where does he propose to meet?” The New Canaanite asked, a restraining hand on Joshua’s arm. Fury smoldered in the Burned Man’s gaze, but he held his silence for the time being.

“He will await you on the Spine at sundown tomorrow,” The White Leg replied, regaining a little confidence now that Daniel seemed to have the dreaded Burned Man on a leash. “He also requests that you come alone, to speak one chieftain to another.”

Several second of tense silence reigned on the riverbank. The gaze of the White Leg flicked about nervously at the sea of grim faces before him, though none was worse than the piercing stare of the Burned Man.

Finally, Daniel said, “We’ll consider your offer.”

The White Leg nodded, turning and beginning to wade his way back down the river, branch still gripped in painted hands.

“It’s a trap,” Felina guessed, watching him go. “Salt-Upon-Wounds is going to try and get one of you alone, with a bunch of his flunkies waiting in ambush.”

“Of course, it’s a trap.” Daniel’s normally calm face was grim as he watched the pale figure pass into the shadow of the cliffs. “And even if it’s not, we waited too long to make a decision on the tribes, so now Salt-Upon-Wounds will make it for us.”

“That dog’s son will not dictate to me.” Joshua’s voice was lower and more dangerous than Felina had ever heard it. She turned toward him just as the crack of a gunshot rang out, echoing like a death knell between the cliffs, and the retreating White Leg dropped like a stone.

* * *

 

Salt-Upon-Wounds sat and brooded. His blue-grey eyes watched Kore’s agile hands deftly weaving reed after reed into her basket, her dark skin contrasting with the red rock around her. He watched, and he thought.

His emissary to the Dead Horses had not returned. Not that he was particularly surprised—this was the famed Legate Malpais after all. Scouts had reported the messenger entering the Eastern Virgin, and that was enough for Salt-Upon-Wounds. His message was delivered.

Now, they had only to wait.


	12. Just a Few More Weary Days and Then

“You literally shot the messenger, Joshua, that’s what you did.”

“Yes, Daniel, I heard you the first time. And as I’ve said, I won’t allow Salt-Upon-Wounds to think he can play games with me.”

Felina kept her mouth shut as the two New Canaanites bickered, silently eating her fish and watching with interest. Daniel, seemingly the only person in Zion able to argue with the Burned Man and get a result, had parked himself beside Joshua’s workbench and was giving the other man an earful.

“You’re only proving Salt-Upon-Wounds right when you do things like this, Joshua. You saw it yourself—they still see you as Legion. Why won’t you even give their proposal a chance?”

“Because it’s clearly a trap. The minute we’re alone, he’ll call the backup he will invariably have out of hiding to gun down or capture me. That his backup will even be human is looking on the bright side.”

“That’s why you go, then. Find _She’s_ weakness and exploit it.”

“Yes, and risk my life and the lives of any backup we bring in the process. Even if it isn’t a trap, any deal Salt-Upon-Wounds tries to cut will end with me being turned over to the White Legs, which you won’t allow, or the White Legs taking over Zion, which I won’t allow.”

“What do we do then? Continue the stalemate while we argue over the fate of the Sorrows, and the White Legs pick them off one by one?”

Felina and Chalk watched the back and forth, knowing to stay silent if they valued their lives. Waking Cloud sat off to one side, occasionally giving a troubled glance up from cleaning her gauntlet, but she likewise held her silence.

Daniel rubbed his face with his hands. “Look, Joshua, I’m not saying you have to play by all of Salt-Upon-Wounds’ rules; he disqualified himself when he weaponized _She._ Yes, the chance is high that things will go wrong. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”

“I will not allow the White Legs to think they can win,” Joshua growled. “Salt-Upon-Wounds can wait atop the Spine until the Lord’s return before I willingly walk into his trap.”

Daniel stared down at the other man for several long moments. Throughout the entire conversation, Joshua had not ceased his methodical inspection of pistols, as though the task kept him from having to look at his brother.

“Well then,” Said Daniel at last, “I will continue to pray about it, and I know you will as well. But there is a difference between waiting for the Lord to open the way, and seeing an opportunity provided and ignoring it.”

With that, the New Canaanite strode from the cave without a backward look, ignoring Joshua’s glare after him that could have burned holes through steel. After several moments, Waking Cloud rose and followed Daniel, leaving Felina and Chalk alone with the Burned Man in uncomfortable silence.

* * *

 

Late afternoon of the next day found Felina and Follows-Chalk on a level place in the hillside above Angel Cave, where the Dead Horses had set up numerous dummies to use as targets. Courier and tribal had both steered clear of Joshua as much as possible, the Burned Man being in a foul mood following the previous day’s events.

“Do you think Daniel has a point?” Felina wondered aloud, hanging her trenchcoat over a low-hanging tree branch. She rolled up her sleeves against the sun’s warmth and unsheathed her knife, dropping into a fighting stance before one of the dummies. “I mean, I’m probably the biggest advocate for avoiding _She_ in the entire valley, but even I think something has to change sooner or later. If we take the initiative, that change is more likely to be in our favor.”

Follows-Chalk hefted his war club, a curved length of wood carved on one end with a horse’s head, with tribal markings patterning its length. He darted at one of the dummies, dealing several sharp blows to its potato-sack head before diving away from imaginary counterattacks.

“I do not know,” He admitted, dusting himself off, “But if this was a real fight, you are dead now.”

Felina glared over at the tribal’s impish grin. “Good thing it’s not, then!”

To prove her point, she lunged at her own dummy, delivering a swift slash to its middle that spilled its grassy guts onto the ground. Her next swipe would have cut its wooden throat, but her enthusiasm left her knife blade embedded into the tough wood, wrenching it from her hand and sending her stumbling. Chalk laughed at her attempts to lever the blade free.

“Such a small knife you have,” He remarked, “Why not use a club instead? It is much better for hitting things.”

Felina wrenched the weapon free, dusting wood chips off its edge and repositioning the lopsided dummy. “I can’t sneak a war club into a casino that doesn’t allow weapons,” She replied. “If I want to clobber somebody, I can always use my shotgun.”

“A fair point,” Chalk admitted, taking another swing at his wooden foe. “Joshua also is quite fond of hitting things with his gun—wah!”

In his distraction, the young tribal hit the dummy a little too hard, walloping its head clean off. The vaguely sphere-shaped sack of brush bounced down the hill, becoming entangled in a bush near the edge of the drop-off to the camp below. Chalk jogged down to retrieve it, only to halt in confusion.

“Hoi, Filly-na, come and see this!” He called.

Felina sheathed her knife as she joined him, the dummy head now forgotten. The narrow trail wound down to the riverbank, switching back on itself several times, leaving room for a lovely view of the Eastern Virgin’s towering cliffs. But the pair on the ridge were unconcerned with the sweeping vista; instead both were focused on a flannel-clad figure wading through the river below.

“Is that Daniel?” Felina felt sinking dread settling in her gut, realization hitting her like a ton of bricks. “That utter—I thought he was smarter than this!”

She clapped a hand to her hip, where Maria was holstered. Her shotgun was in Angel Cave, too out of the way. The pistol wound have to do.

“Chalk,” She ordered, her mind racing as the New Canaanite’s figure disappeared around a bend in the river. “Find Joshua, tell him Daniel’s gone to the Spine.”

“What about you?”

“I…” Felina chewed her lip, brow furrowing anxiously. “I’m going to follow Daniel. I doubt I’ll be able to talk him out of whatever he’s planning, but I can back him up.”

Together Courier and Dead Horse descended as fast as the rocky trail would allow, then split up at bottom, Chalk heading for the camp, Felina heading away.

Dead Horse sentries silently observed the woman sloshing through the river below, muttering oaths to herself as the sun dipped nearer and nearer to the mountaintops. The sentries also observed as a lean, brown figure followed soundlessly after her, gauntlet strapped firmly to one arm.

Puffing from the effort of hurrying through knee-deep water, Felina splashed onto the bank and followed the trail of wet footprints leading up the hill onto the ruined road. Cresting the rise, she spotted Daniel’s flannel vanishing up the remains of some Old World hiking trail. Her boots squelching upon the hard-packed earth, Felina sucked in dry air and forced her legs into a run, crossing the shattered pavement and starting up the trail.

“Daniel!” She called, keeping her voice low in case White Legs lurked nearby. “Daniel!”

The New Canaanite halted. He turned, looking down at the approaching woman.

“Felina,” He said, waiting for her to catch up, “What are you doing here?”

The Courier reached his side and stood, bracing her hands on her knees, catching her breath before speaking.

“Whatever you’re planning,” She gasped, “I won’t let you do it. Can’t you see how much danger you’re walking into?”

Daniel’s gaze was sad, but as kind as ever. “The Lord protects me, Felina. I—”

“No! Shut up!” Felina snapped, surprising even herself with her outburst, but she continued regardless. “Look, you trust your God, I get that. But can’t you see you’re letting that trust blind you to all reasonable sense of caution?”

“I do what I must do, Felina,” Daniel replied patiently, "The Lord guides my way.”

With a groan, Felina dragged dusty hands down her face in despair. “If I can’t talk you out of it, then I’m coming with you,” She declared. “You can’t stop me.”

The New Canaanite gazed at her in silence for several moments, probably wondering if he could still convince her to stay. Then he sighed. “Very well, then. I’ll be glad of your company. But if Salt-Upon-Wounds waits, you must remain hidden.”

“Fine.” Felina drew Maria, keeping the weapon at the ready, and together the pair continued in tense silence.

Long shadows began to stretch across the valley, the setting sun turning the undersides of the clouds blood-red. The rocks took on a purple hue as shadows consumed them. The two beings trudging up the rocky trail seemed miniscule compared to the vastness of Zion, even lit as they were by the remnants of the setting sun trailing its shadows after them. With every step, Felina felt as though she was marching to her own death.

“Here,” Daniel said at length. “Now, I must go on alone.”

For a heartbeat, Felina could say nothing. The path continued ever higher ahead, winding out of sight amidst towering red rocks.

“Just…” She gripped his arm, her face pleading a last desperate attempt. “be careful, alright?”

Daniel placed a hand upon his pistol, and his smile gave Felina a flicker of hope. “I will. Thank you, Felina.”

With that, he turned, striding purposefully up the path and vanishing from sight.

Felina waited, counting to twenty, expecting every moment to hear a gunshot or a scream, _something_ to break the heavy silence. Then she lowered herself to the ground and, darting from boulder to bush, followed the New Canaanite’s trail.

Setting every step down lightly as a feather, the Courier situated herself behind a large bush near the trailhead. Prickly branches crisscrossed in front of her so thick that she could scarcely see, but they provided ample cover. Keeping on her stomach, she peered out from her bracken fortress, and beheld Salt-Upon-Wounds.

The White Legs’ chieftain stood on the precipice with his back to her, gazing out over Zion. The setting sun illuminated his pale form, and his power fist, which hung at his side. Behind him, nearer to Felina’s hiding place, Daniel approached, his boots crunching the rocky ground, and Salt-Upon-Wounds inclined an ear back towards him.

“Decided to come, then,” The tribal said, his voice accented similarly to the Dead Horses and the Sorrows. “Was beginning to think you wouldn’t. Was beginning to think—”

Here he turned to face Daniel, and froze. His blue eyes flashed in his painted face. “What is the meaning of this?” He snarled.

Daniel replied, calmer than Felina would have expected him to be—certainly calmer than she would have been in the same scenario. “What do you mean?”

“Where is he?” Salt-Upon-Wounds demanded. “Where is Legate Malpais?”

“The Malpais Legate is dead,” Daniel said. “He burned in Caesar’s inferno. We here know only Joshua Graham, servant of God.”

The tribal’s power fist clenched. Felina watched, wide-eyed, desperately hoping Daniel would be able to get his gun out faster than Salt-Upon-Wounds could lunge. But for the moment, neither moved.

“You try to trick me then,” The White Leg growled.

Felina flexed her grip on her gun, ready to back Daniel up if things went south. The tension was almost unbearable, but she forced herself to remain steady. In her concentration, she did not notice the silent, bandage-wrapped figure creeping spider-like up the trail behind her.

“We do not trick you,” Daniel replied, still unruffled. “Your emissary said you wished to speak with those of New Canaan. Well, I am of New Canaan, and I am here. Speak.”

But the tribal shook his head. “If the Burned Man won’t come, I will force him out!”

With a roar, he launched himself at the other man. Daniel leapt back, and the blow from the power fist that would have shattered his ribcage glanced off his forearm. The New Canaanite drew his weapon, firing two shots; one went wide, the other ricocheted off the White Legs’ power fist with a sharp _ping._ Now it was Salt-Upon-Wounds’ turn to leap back, rolling behind a boulder, avoiding another shot from Daniel’s pistol. Daniel did likewise, ducking behind his own boulder near Felina’s hiding place and crouching, another magazine ready in his hand.

Hope flared in Felina’s gut. Salt-Upon-Wounds, with his lack of ranged weapons, would be easy for the two of them to keep pinned down while they retreated.

She had scarcely drawn breath to call out to Daniel when the hairs on the back of her neck stood straight up. The air pressure seemed to drop, and she felt as though all the oxygen was being sucked from her lungs.

Zion’s Bane appeared.

 Daniel leapt upright with a shout of horror at the blazing monstrosity that stood before him. For _She_ regarded him without emotion, without soul, its eyes twin abysses in its burning face. It cast no shadow, though the setting sun still lingered above the horizon, as though it stood in a plane all its own.

“Kill him, beast!” Salt-Upon-Wounds shouted from his hiding place, “I command you!”

Daniel was moving before he had finished speaking; indeed, if he had not, _She’s_ claws would have torn him apart. He dove out of the way, unloading his pistol into its flaming hide, but bullets could not touch it.

Felina inhaled to shout, perhaps draw the beast’s attention away, when a cloth-wrapped hand snaked around to clamp over her mouth like a vice.

“Silence!” The voice of the Burned Man hissed in her ear, “Do not draw its gaze!”

Gripping his hand, Felina tried to surge upright, to help, _something,_ but Joshua pushed her back down into the dirt. Then she heard the crunch of his boots on the earth, and he himself leapt from hiding.

“You want me, Salt-Upon-Wounds?!” He thundered, and the sight of his wrath was almost more dreadful than _She._ “Here I am! Face me if you dare, you dog’s son!”

Felina saw through the crisscrossing branches, the stark terror on the tribal’s face at the fury of the Burned Man. _She,_ occupied by Daniel rolling desperately out of the way of its claws, did nothing to stop Joshua lunging past it. Clearing the boulder with a bound, Graham hit the tribal like a ton of bricks, the hilt of his pistol cracking savagely across the White Legs’ jaw. The two tumbled in a heap dangerously close to the cliff edge.

“Beast!” Salt-Upon-Wounds screamed, spitting blood as he scrabbled backward away from the looming menace of the Burned Man, “Help me!”

 _She_ turned. It knocked Daniel away with a swipe of one huge paw, sending him crashing through the bush directly into Felina, and made for Joshua. Hooking razor claws into the back of his vest, _She_ yanked him clear over the boulder to tumble in the dust.

Daniel disentangled himself from Felina, who frantically cast about for her pistol, only to be halted by the New Canaanite’s grip on her arm.

“Felina,” He said urgently, “You’re looking. That’s good. Keep looking.”

“What?” Felina stared at him in wide-eyed confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”

 _She_ slammed Joshua to the ground, a massive paw planted on his chest. Salt-Upon-Wounds roared nearby, “Kill him! Kill him, slave!”

Daniel gripped Felina’s face between his hands, forcing her to look at him. “I’m saying you’re looking for what makes you kind, what makes you merciful, what makes you good. It exists, Felina, it does, and it whispers. Listen for it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Felina cried.

But Daniel just pressed a swift kiss to her brow, then turned and lunged for _She._

Zion’s Bane stood over Joshua, obsidian fangs bared above his face. Its colossal form was not moved by a single inch as Daniel slammed into it, until the New Canaanite’s hands closed on its neck—no, on something fixed to its neck, almost obscured by flames.

 _She_ reared. It lifted itself to its full colossal height, Daniel dangling helplessly before it, its roar echoing through Zion. It was not the man hanging from it that set it to thundering; rather it was the almost-realizing of something that had hitherto gone unnoticed. Something foreign, something dreadful.

Joshua, taking advantage of its distraction, rolled out from under the beast a heartbeat before it slammed back down into all fours with enough force to shake the ground. Yet the impact did not dislodge Daniel, who clung like a leech to its neck.

Salt-Upon-Wounds fairly danced with rage, blood flying from his lips. “Get rid of him, stupid beast!” He bellowed, sudden fear in his voice at what Daniel had noticed, and what _She_ was a hair’s breadth from noticing.

Zion’s Bane spun and tossed its great head, throwing a thousand sparks to the evening sky. Salt-Upon-Wounds was forced to duck to avoid Daniel’s flailing legs, and Joshua likewise leaped back from _She’s_ monstrous presence.

“Daniel!” The Burned Man shouted over the beast’s din, dread hitting him at the realization that _She’s_ throes were carrying it perilously close to the cliff edge, which dropped off some two-hundred feet to the river below.

Felina saw it too. She surged from hiding, only to be caught by Joshua as she tried to rush past him. Neither could get a clear shot; Felina could only struggle against the Burned Man’s grip, screaming, inarticulate.

 Zion’s Bane, blinded by desperation to rid itself of the clinging invader, hurtled a step too far. Obsidian claws tore at the stone, trying to regain solid footing, but _She’s_ weight and momentum were too great. For a hideous hundredth of a second, man and beast hung suspended in the air. Then they plunged over the precipice with a last echoing roar.

_“DANIEL!”_


	13. In Constant Sorrow

Night covered Zion. The crescent moon hung amidst the stars, its cold light only extinguished by the cover of an occasional passing cloud. The creatures of the valley slept, roosted, or experienced whatever form of rest nature dictated to them.

Waking Cloud walked the banks of the Virgin River. She carried no torch, for a lifetime of living in Zion had taught her how to see by the moon’s light almost as well as the sun’s. Silently her footsteps imprinted in the soft sand, the only noise being perhaps the faintest rustle of the hides she wore, or the slight movement of her yao guai gauntlet.

Then the footprints stopped. The woman stood stock still on the bank, her gaze fixed on a dark mass drifting through the water ahead, coming gently to rest on the bank. The Virgin River lapped on, combing watery fingers through dark hair, through a torn flannel.

Waking Cloud took a step forward. Then a cry like a dying thing tore from her lips, and she was running, stumbling, falling in the sand at Daniel’s side, pulling him from the dark water and placing a desperate ear to his chest.

Silence.

Her face stricken, the Sorrows woman gently pushed strands of hair from his face with trembling fingers, shutting his sightless eyes. She buried her face in his chest and wept bitter tears.

Then, Waking Cloud felt the presence of Zion’s Bane.

It walked from out of the river, water streaming from its slight form. It came to stand over Daniel’s lifeless body, and Waking Cloud saw with abject horror that a face very much like hers gazed back at her, its eyes as black as the dark side of the moon.

**Mother,** it said, in its voice without language. **Will you name me?**

Waking Cloud staggered to her feet, terror and rage and grief all twisting together upon her face. “You killed him,” She cried, then again, louder, “You _killed_ him! How could you? How _could_ you?”

**Mother.**

“No.” The woman shook her head, tears streaming down her face, lurching backward away from the delicate thing. “You are no child of mine. No child of mine would have done this!”

_She_ stepped forward, stepped over Daniel’s body as though he was not even there. It was beautiful, Waking Cloud realized, beautiful, even as jagged scars raked ugly paths across its form. Beautiful, terrible, dreadful thing.

**Mother.**

The Sorrows woman stared into those eyes that were so much like hers. Then she raised her gauntlet, moonlight glinting off its razor claws.

Fallen, corrupted thing though it had become, Zion’s Bane never harmed one of its own. Such was the final remnant of the life it had never known. For this, it did not kill her. It simply passed out of sight without a word, and departed as silently as a cloud passing over the moon.

Waking Cloud breathed once more. Then she sank to her knees beside Daniel’s lifeless body, water dripping from his form turning the sand damp beneath him.

“Why?” She whispered, “Why him? _Why him?”_

But she received no answer.

Folding Daniel’s arms gently over his chest, Waking Cloud upturned her stricken face to the stars above, shining like diamonds embroidered on indigo cloth.

“I blessed your name as the sun shone down,” She said, her voice scarcely more than a broken whisper. “In storm, I must still rejoice.”

The night-dark canyon watched in silence as the Sorrows woman gathered Daniel in her arms as though he weighed no more than a child. Lifting her burden, Waking Cloud stood, and departed the lonely bank into the night.

* * *

 

They buried Daniel on the clifftops, above the camp of the Sorrows he had loved so much. The entire tribe gathered to witness the burial, and even a handful of Dead Horses made the trek to bid farewell to the friend of their leader.

Felina stared blankly as four strong Sorrows lowered Daniel’s body into its final resting place, which received him like a hungry maw. The New Canaanite’s form had been wrapped in yao guai hides, claws crossed over his chest. To the Sorrows, it signified the highest of the honored dead, but to Felina, it only seemed a cruel mockery. Part of her registered that she held Chalk’s hand, but she could take no comfort from the gesture. It all seemed like one long, never-ending nightmare.

White Bird spoke a few words, but Felina did not hear them. Joshua’s voice was a distant rumble, and she could scarcely make out, _yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me…_

Finally, earth covered Daniel’s body, and a simple wooden cross stood amidst a cairn of stones. The Sorrows began to filter away, some weeping openly, some silently, some, like Felina, only staring mutely. Waking Cloud was one of the last to leave, but even she took one look at Joshua and departed on silent feet, leaving only Felina and the Burned Man.

Joshua sank to his knees before the grave. He did not speak, did not weep, did not make any noise at all, but his entire posture was one of complete and utter defeat. The faintest flicker of concern broke through Felina’s grief, and though she was almost afraid to do so, she found herself approaching him, reaching out a hand.

Before she could touch him however, the Burned Man spoke only two words:

“Leave me.”

They were not a request, not a command, they just…were. Felina withdrew her hand and forced her feet to move, turning away from his hunched figure. She left him there alone on the clifftops.

After what seemed an eternity, the Burned Man’s voice floated down into the canyon. It was low, unlovely and rasping, so dirge-like that it could have scarcely been called song.

_“When peace like a river, attendeth my way,_

_When sorrows like sea billows roll;_

_Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say_

_It is well, it is well, with my soul.”_

In the caves below, Felina covered her ears to shut out the sound. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping vainly that it was all some bad dream; that soon she would wake up, and it would all be over. It just couldn’t be real.

“Why?” She whispered into the dark of the cave. _“Why?”_

But she received no answer.


	14. Lonesome Valley

The next few days were a blur. Felina could not say how long she sat slumped in that dark corner of Angel Cave, watching without seeing as the sun somehow continued to rise, the fire somehow continued to burn, and the Dead Horses somehow continued their routines. She could not even summon up the energy to weep. It all blended together into one meaningless jumble.

The Courier stared blankly at Joshua, who sat at his workbench as always. How could he act so normal after he had just buried his closest friend and brother? After only a day of mourning, he had gone back to routine as though nothing had happened. Perhaps this was his way of coping. Or perhaps he had lost so many close to him that he simply ceased to feel the pain anymore.

“Filly-na?”

Felina dragged her gaze away from the Burned Man and over to Follows-Chalk, who approached her tentatively, holding up two spears. “Want to go fishing?”

How could he think of food at a time like this?

The young tribal seemed to read her expression, for he explained, “I thought it might help with…how is it said? The raising of the spirits?”

Felina stared wordlessly at his tattooed face with the vague hope that if she gave no response, he would give up and leave her alone.

Then Joshua said, “Go with him, Felina. Some exercise will do you good.”

Resentment at being told what to do burned in her gut, but finally she forced her stiff joints into motion. Staggering to her feet, Felina took Chalk’s offered spear and used it as a walking stick, staring at the tribal’s heels as she followed him from the cave. The sky above was overcast, which Felina found fortunate—she didn’t know if she could bear the sun shining down in mockery of her grief.

Every step felt like a wasted effort. One more step that she hadn’t put towards going to Daniel’s aid. If only Zion’s Bane didn’t steal her nerves whenever it appeared, if only Daniel hadn’t charged ahead so recklessly, if only Joshua hadn’t held her back! Wasn’t he the one who had previously tried to pistol-whip _She,_ of all things? And what had Daniel seen that caused him to cling so doggedly to that monster?

Idiots and fools, the lot of them, Felina thought darkly, herself included. And as much as she would like to have hoped otherwise, her gut told her that _She_ had indeed survived the fall. Because of course it had. And to top it all off, Salt-Upon-Wounds had gotten off scot-free, save perhaps a bloody nose. He still had his beast, and one less New Canaanite to worry about. Things were just peachy on his side.

Her storm of consciousness manifested itself as a fierce scowl, which Chalk noticed as they approached the fishing hole. “What are you thinking about?” He asked cautiously.

It took Felina several moments of glaring to register that he had asked her a question, and several more moments to formulate her swirling thoughts into something vaguely coherent.

“I—just—” She began, before halting. Then she burst out, “It’s not fair!”

Chalk, seeing that a rant was on the way, did not reply, only waiting for Felina to elaborate.

“It’s not fair!” The Courier exclaimed again, the butt of her spear sinking into the sand as she stamped it angrily. “I didn’t ask for any of this! All I wanted was to get away from Vegas for a few months, get away from having the weight of the world on my shoulders and visit some nice folks in Utah, and instead I end up nearly killed by some godforsaken monster and tossed into the middle of tribal warfare!”

“It is not so bad,” Chalk tried to encourage her. “Joshua knows the valley well. When the White Legs are dealt with, he can show you how to get home.”

Mentioning the Burned Man was his error. Felina made a noise of aggravation, stabbing her spear once more into the sand. “God, don’t even get me started on him!” She snarled, her anger building. “At least Daniel was sincere, but that crusty old man can’t even admit to himself that he’s not nearly as far removed from the Legion as he likes to think. If he was, he wouldn’t get so pissed off every time I suggest showing a little basic respect for human life!”

“Hoi!” Chalk exclaimed indignantly, coming to the Burned Man’s defense, “My tribe would be Legion now if not for Joshua! He is stronger and wiser than any of us, and he protects his friends!”

Felina gave the nearest rock a hefty kick that sent it flying into the river. The first few raindrops went unheeded by both her and the tribal “Yeah,” She agreed, “and he’s done a rip-roaring job of it lately, hasn’t he!”

Chalk frowned. “’Rip-roaring?’”

“Joshua won’t let me swear, so I have to improvise! And that’s _another_ thing I hate about him—”

“You are not thinking straight,” The Dead Horse said. “You are sad about Daniel—”

Felina glared at him wrathfully. Rain was starting to fall harder now, but it still went ignored. “Oh, _I’m_ not thinking straight?” She echoed, her voice dripping contempt, “Maybe I’m just not naïve enough to think Joshua is some paragon of virtue and leadership!”

“Do not use words that I do not know the meaning of!” Chalk exclaimed, beginning to get heated himself now. “I do not know if I want to be friends with someone who says the things you say!”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t,” Felina shot back, “if you just can’t handle someone thinking differently than you!”

“And maybe you are talking nonsense! I think I will leave you alone until you start thinking with your head, and not with your sad!”

“You do that! See if I care!”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

With that, Chalk stuck his spear in the sand, spun around, and marched away into the rain without a backward look, leaving Felina alone on the bank.

It was only after his figure had disappeared that Felina began to realize what she had said, and regret rushed in. What had she done?

“Chalk, wait!” She cried, starting a pace forward, “I—I didn’t mean—”

But her words were muted, swallowed by the downpour.

* * *

 

Rain was falling at a steady pace as the Burned Man looked out from Angel Cave. The drear matched his emotional state.

He had watched children suffer and die in front of him, he had even caused some of that suffering and death with his own two hands.

He had watched a child grow up, a child he might have dared to call son, and then watched that child smile as the man he might have called father was doused in pitch.

And now, he had watched as his only remaining friend, his brother in Christ, had plunged to his death for his own sake.

And it had never ceased to hurt.

Oh, he had trained himself not to show his pain years ago, but that did not stop the deep-seated agony that burned worse than any fire. Why? Why must it hurt so much?

The canyon watched the Burned Man step from the cave.

Felina sat upon the riverbank, a wet bundle scarcely-noticeable amidst the downpour, staring bleakly into the pouring rain. She did not react at the sound of footsteps behind her, as though she had given up caring if it was friend or foe.

“Felina?” Came Joshua’s gruff voice, “What are you still doing out here? You’ll catch cold.”

The Courier stared down at her lap, and for several seconds was silent under the weight of guilt.

“Chalk and I got into a fight,” She said at last, her voice so small that the Burned Man could barely hear her. “He…he left.”

Joshua was silent. He stepped forward, and after a moment’s hesitation, reached out and laid a gentle hand upon her hunched shoulder.

A strangled sort of noise escaped Felina’s throat at his touch, and he almost drew back, but something told him it was not his doing. Or rather, he was merely the catalyst for something that had been, until now, held desperately at bay.

Felina’s posture bent in on itself, but even her hand over her mouth could not stifle the sob that wrenched from her gut. And like dominoes, once the first was free, there was no stopping the rest. Every unshed tear from the moment she had set foot in Zion was now coming forth. From the destruction of her caravan to the terror of _She,_ her vision in the cave of White Bird to Daniel’s death, and now Chalk—the pain was too great to be borne.

Instinct took over. The Burned Man sank down at her back, ignoring the damp sand, drawing Felina into his arms and pressing her to his heart. She buried her face into his chest, her fingers gripping the coarse material of his vest, sobs wracking her light frame. And she did not notice that silent tears of his own fell into her rain-damped hair.

Without thinking, Joshua slid an arm beneath Felina’s knees, lifting her easily. She was so light, like a child in his arms. Her weight upon him sent white-hot blades tracing slowly down his charred flesh, but the pain went as unheeded as the present downpour. All his concentration was focused on her, and the fear that if he tried too hard, she would shatter in his arms as he carried her in out of the rain.

It was difficult to say how much time passed before Joshua looked down once more at Felina’s slight form. The firelight reflected faintly on the partially-dried tears that encrusted her cheeks. But for now, she had cried herself to sleep propped against the Burned Man’s knee, his arm about her shoulders. Somewhere in her grief, she had taken his free hand in both of hers and pressed it to her heart, where it remained, bandages stark white against the black of her shirt. The cave was still and quiet around them, the only sound being the crackle of the fire, and the distant murmur of rain.

Joshua gazed into the dancing flames, exhaustion gnawing at his senses. There were still things to do, of course—plans to be made, courses to be altered, White Legs to be dealt with, but it all seemed momentarily distant compared to the woman nestled in his arms, a sensation he had never thought to experience in good conscience again. The world did not stop turning, but for awhile at least, it could turn without him.

Leaning his head back against the side of his workbench, the Burned Man closed his eyes and slept.

* * *

 

Follows-Chalk sat on the covered porch of some Old World building, its purpose long-forgotten. Still steaming from his argument with Felina, the young tribal spent his anger by taking the empty cans that littered the dusty interior, flinging them off the porch, and watching them skitter over the edge of what would have likely been quite a beautiful overlook, had it not been shrouded by rain.

Filly-na was not thinking straight, he tried to argue with himself. She was upset, and so was he, but did that give her the right to say stupid things? No!

But despite his best efforts, a small corner of his brain continued to insist: were they so stupid? Was he holding Joshua to a standard that was too high?

**Come to me.**

The voice, whispering through the rain, called to his anger, called to his pain.

Chalk lowered his hand, the can in his grip suddenly forgotten. “Hello?” He called, his keen gaze scanning the ruined road and the rocks beyond for signs of life. “Filly-na?”

His voice seemed small against the rain, which only served to further aggravate him. Picking up his war club, the young tribal stepped into the rain. “Who is there?” He demanded. “Come out!”

**Come to me.**

“Why?” Chalk snapped, ignoring the uncomfortable prickling feeling the voice gave him. “It is raining!”

**Come.**

Flexing his grip on his war club, the Dead Horse glared about at nothing in particular. Each drop of rain felt as though it had a personal vendetta to irritate him. He should just go back onto the porch and continue throwing cans, part of him argued. That had worked quite well until now, hadn’t it?

But that voice…it spoke without language, calling across leagues, unsilenced by rain.

Perhaps it was Joshua’s god?

This realization almost caused the tribal to take a step back. What if it was the god he had never seen? Had not Joshua said something about a voice crying in the wilderness? Perhaps this was it!

**Come to me.**

“Hoi!” Chalk exclaimed, starting onto the ruined road, “Are you the god of New Canaan? If you are, I have many questions!”

The cliffs of Zion passed like silent sentinels, watching the small figure on the fractured snake of road below. Like a desperate traveler pursuing a shimmering mirage, Follows-Chalk sped over the ruined pavement, his already-light footsteps now completely silenced by the pouring rain, the safety of the Eastern Virgin fading farther and farther behind him. He passed below the Spine without a thought for what had occurred there so recently—all consciousness was consumed with anger, burning questions, and the utter need to find the source of that voice.

At last, the young tribal halted, a flicker of thought breaking through his rain-addled mind like a ray of sunlight through dark clouds. The cliffs of the Three Marys loomed in the distance, and before him, the Virgin River split three ways, each flowing deeper into the red rock of Zion. Staring at the distant cliffs, a single, all-encompassing thought occurred to him, sweeping away all anger.

He shouldn’t be here.

 This realization broke the fog of rage, galvanizing his body into motion. Chalk spun about, intending to race back to the safety of the Eastern Virgin, and found himself looking into dead black eyes. Drops of rain sizzled, evaporating on impact with a burning face.

 **Come,** said Zion’s Bane.

Follows-Chalk screamed.


	15. Lay Your Bones on the Alabaster Stones

Felina awoke from bitter dreams upon the familiar bighorner hide. Sunlight filtered in from the mouth of the cave, illuminating dust motes drifting like fireflies across the scattered sunbeams. She stared at the entrance, half-expecting Chalk to come bouncing in at any moment, before remembering the previous day’s events.

The weight of iniquity crushed down upon her, and Felina buried her head in her hands. That’s right—Chalk had left her after that stupid argument, left her to stew alone in her pain, like she deserved. Until Joshua had arrived, like some paradoxical guardian angel, and taken her under his wing. She didn’t deserve help, not even from someone as broken as him.

Forcing herself upright, Felina could only manage to stagger her way to the fire, before slumping down again. Propping her chin on her knees, she stared into the glowing coals and let her mind wander—anything to distract from her pain. The previous night was a blur. She had been sobbing too hard to notice much of what Joshua was doing, but she found herself missing the sensation of safety his arms provided. Safety, comfort, all the things that had been routinely denied her since the moment she set foot in Zion. The fact that he was still capable of such gentleness was a marvel on its own.

You’re being childish, the cynical part of her fought back. How many people had he killed? He could snap her neck like a dry stick without breaking a sweat. No doubt he had visited such a fate on more than a few White Legs. To prescribe him the aspects of her feminine fancies was only fooling herself. He was nothing if not dangerous, unpredictable, and seemingly impossible to take down.

Felina glared into the fire, feeling as though someone had taken a handful of coals and deposited them in her chest, where they continued to smolder. She remained there, stewing in her resentment and self-deprecation, unwilling to get up and make her way to the beckoning sunrays in the cave mouth.

Footsteps crunched outside. A shadow filled the entrance, and the Burned Man appeared. He paused for a heartbeat at the sight of her, and seemed about to speak, but decided against it and instead made his way to his workbench in silence. He ejected an empty magazine from his pistol, and Felina stared at the crimson stains marring the white of his bandaged knuckles.

“Does it give you joy to kill people?” She found herself saying.

Joshua glanced up. Felina could tell he was weighing if she was trying to bait him, but he responded: “No, it gives me joy to do the Lord’s work.”

“And killing people, that’s what your Lord wants?”

“If those people are enemies, then yes, it is what the Lord wants.”

“Sounds more like what you want.”

The Burned Man’s icy stare pierced into her for several long seconds. Then he said, “It is not impossible for the two things to coincide.”

“Isn’t that a rather barbaric way to live?” Felina knew she was provoking him, but she didn’t care. “I thought you’d changed.”

To her surprise, Joshua gave a low chuckle. The sound sent a chill down her spine. “Trust me, Courier, if I had not changed, you would not be sitting there in full possession of your own body.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It is a fact.” The Burned Man thrust a fresh magazine into his weapon, laid it aside, and began unwinding the bloodied bandages from his hand. “Spare me the semantics; you’ve killed White Legs alongside me. Killing out of necessity is not a sign of inherent evil.”

“Except what you’re doing isn’t out of necessity,” Felina argued. “You’re going out and actively hunting them down like—like animals.”

“Are they not animals?” Joshua spoke as though explaining something to a child. “I’m sure you’ve noticed how their numbers are predominately male. Those few females among them are kept as slaves, only useful for menial work and bearing sons to continue the tribe. Any female warriors only hold their position by having slaughtered any man who dared touch them. Is such behavior not animalistic?”

“It’s horrible, yes,” Felina agreed, “but so is stooping to their level like you’re doing.”

“Courier, if you are suggesting that I simply be the bigger man and only attack when provoked, let me tell you that such behavior is exactly why New Canaan burned. Sometimes, a first strike is necessary for survival.”

“Yeah, I bet what’s what the guy holding the football thought, too,” Felina muttered under her breath.

She hadn’t intended for Joshua to hear her, but he did, and broke off winding fresh bandages about his hand to glare at her. “The Great War happened because the world fell away from God, and instead used themselves as their only source of truth,” He stated flatly. “My actions are guided by God’s hand.”

“Uh-huh. And God’s direction just so happens to be the same as the little voice in your head telling you to kill White Legs?”

“At times, yes.”

“And you don’t suppose it’s just you saying those things?”

Joshua resumed winding bandages. “If it was, this conversation would have been over long ago,” He replied, his voice barely above a growl. “Am I to believe that your godless standards are somehow better?”

“Well, they’re certainly better than yours. I don’t need a god to tell me how to be a good person, and least of all a god who seems to care so little about what happens to His followers.”

“Oh, I see…” The Burned Man’s expression became a hair softer, a hair sadder. “Daniel’s death has crippled us all. But one day, Lord willing, we will see him again.”

His concern only served to infuriate Felina further. “Don’t patronize me, old man,” she growled. “If your Lord wills anything, it certainly doesn’t go toward preventing His own followers from dying meaningless deaths while the actual bad guys get off scot-free. Seems a little suspicious, if you ask me.”

“Oh?” Joshua’s gaze hardened once more. “Very well then, _girl,_ what have you to say on a matter you’re clearly so well-versed in?”

The fire in Felina’s breast smoldered, increasing in pain and intensity. “If God is so all-powerful, so all-seeing, then how come His own seem to know nothing but pain?” She demanded. “What, is He blind to it? Does He just not know? Or maybe He just abandoned us creatures of dirt to our helpless, decaying state. That sounds about right—God abandoned us, and I don’t blame Him. God abandoned us on October 23rd, 2077!”

“Courier…” Joshua’s tightening fist, the controlled rasp of his voice, every warning sign went completely unheeded by the woman before him.

“And even if He didn’t, He doesn’t give a rat’s ass about people like me,” Felina spat venomously. “Where the hell was God when I was getting shot in the head, huh? Or being stripped naked by the Brotherhood of Steel? Or being speared by White Legs, or chased by _She?”_

Felina was on her feet now, shouting: “If your God, in all His love and kindness, if He just sits back and watches good people like Daniel die without lifting a finger to intervene, if your God just—just _lets_ that happen, then your God is _evil!”_

_“GET OUT!”_

Felina lurched back, all anger suddenly forgotten, crushed under the weight of terror that was the Burned Man—no, the _Malpais Legate_ —clearing his workbench with a bound and lunging straight at her, his eyes blazing blue fire.

Spinning around so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet, Felina felt his fingers catching at her ponytail as she ran for her life. She screamed, ducking as the deafening crack of a gunshot assaulted her ears. Then she was outside, half-blinded by garish sunlight. Sprinting across the bank past confused Dead Horses, she leaped into the river with a splash, stumbling and sloshing as fast as her legs would carry her, expecting any moment to be caught and pulled back. And the roar of the Malpais Legate was dreadful in her ears.

In Angel Cave, Joshua lowered his weapon from where he had fired it at the ceiling. Shaking with rage, his chest heaved with furious breaths, the bandages over his mouth slipping to reveal his bared teeth. Fire burned in his veins, pounding in his temples and in his chest. Every instinct urged him to pursue, to hunt her down, to catch her, and to watch fear fill her face as he hissed into her ear those words he had spoken to countless other prey: _no one escapes Legate Malpais._

Chase her. Catch her. Trap her.

_Burn her._

But something held him back.

Deep within the ash-covered depths of his soul, Joshua became aware of the tiniest remnant of that still, small presence, and overwhelming fear filled him at the sensation. The weapon in his hand clattered to the ground. He stumbled back, gasping, retreating into the shadowed bowels of the cave and cowering like a wounded beast. What had he done? What twisted thoughts had he dredged up from the darkest times of his life?

He had to hide, he knew, but from who? Himself? No one knew the depths of the worst things he had done, except…except…

But the only one who knew was also the only one from which there was no hiding. There could be no hiding from the eyes of Zion. Wherever he looked, there was Zion. And there was no hiding from the question that seemed to etch itself in bold letters across every surface: _who are you really, Joshua Graham?_

His breath shuddering in his throat, the Burned Man’s wild gaze darted about the empty cave. He sank to his knees, arms clutching at himself as though to conceal the ugly truth of his being. But no amount of writhing would free him from that unwavering gaze.

“Lord,” He blurted out, “I—”

Here he faltered. Every meticulous excuse he had constructed died before reaching his lips. Every contrived rationale, every pretense of incentive, all crumbled like sand castles before the oncoming tides. And still the cave waited, as though the silence itself waited expectantly for him to continue.

Joshua’s hands fell to his lap. He could not raise his head; the weight of shame was too great. But he drew a ragged breath.

“Speak. I will listen.”

* * *

 

Felina ran. She ran heedless of any danger, without destination, her only objective to put as much distance as possible between herself and the Malpais Legate. Hot tears streamed down her face, sobs of exhaustion and anger and grief all wrenching intermittently from her throat, the only noise in the silent canyon. She passed over road, bridge and trail without knowing where they led, without caring what might lay at the end, other than perhaps a final end to overwhelming pain.

Unaware of how she had gotten there, Felina collapsed on the rocky earth, staring a thousand-yard stare at several cairns of stones erected along the side of the trail. No names were inscribed upon them, and she could not even tell which one was Jed, which one was Stella, which one was Ricky. The desolate sight matched the desolate courier slumped in its midst. She would have wept, but no more tears would come.

The White Legs found her there.


	16. In the Jailhouse Now

Far across Zion in the camp of the Sorrows, Waking Cloud sat in silence. Many thoughts spun in her head, all soured by grief. The rocky overhang above the camp sat empty save for her, its lone tree seeming even lonelier. No more would boots come tramping up the path by dawn’s first light, no more would murmurs be heard of a conversation that seemed one-sided, and yet spoke of one talking to an old and beloved friend.

Waking Cloud stared at a dusty book lying in the dirt a few feet away. She had tried to find solace in it, as Daniel so often had, but her lack of reading comprehension combined with its odd way of words left her more frustrated than comforted. After countless failed attempts to decipher it, she had flung the book away from herself in frustration and buried her head in her hands.

_“You are no child of mine,”_ she had said to Zion’s Bane. And was it not, according to the way of the Sorrows? A child with no name may as well have never existed at all. And yet this one did, lingering in hideous life-in-death, enslaved by outland invaders. Was there no end to the pain?

And of the Burned Man, and the woman at his side, how did they twist into this sordid tale? Were they mere victims of circumstance, or did they play a deeper role? Him, the man whose past life he could not seem to leave behind, and her, the woman whose future was actively and radically being changed.

“I do not understand,” She whispered to the lonely place. “I do not understand!”

Far off in Zion Canyon, a distant wind blew. It swept the dust from the pages of Daniel’s book, and carried with it a still, small voice.

_See the truth, Waking Cloud…_

* * *

 

Salt-Upon-Wounds was forced to do a double-take at the returning patrol splashing into the Three Marys. Before the painted warriors, driven by none-too-gentle prods with spear butts, was a figure that was almost familiar.

The chieftain stood at their approach, eyeing the newcomer, whose hands were bound before her. Now he recalled, he had glimpsed her briefly during the confrontation on the Spine. This must be the infamous woman from the caravan; the one who had survived Zion’s Bane to consort with the Burned Man.

Nearby, though only Salt-Upon-Wounds could see it, Zion’s Bane regarded the woman it had twice failed to kill without anger, without remorse. It passed out of sight without a word, but Salt-upon-Wounds knew it was still near, still watching.

“So,” He said aloud, turning his attention back to the little group splashing onto the bank, “The woman I’ve heard so much about. You’ve caused me a great deal of trouble, outlander.”

The woman said nothing. She cut an odd sight among the tribals surrounding her, with her jeans and dark shirt and boots, her face unpainted, her hair unbraided. Her gaze was bleak, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot.

“You’ve gained quite a name among us,” Salt-Upon-Wounds went on, “as the one my beast could not kill.”

He stepped forward, closer to the woman. Still, she did not react.

“Zion’s Bane watches you even now,” The chieftain informed her. “Did you know that?”

Here he gained the first semblance of reaction from her: a slight quickening of breath, and the darting about of her gaze at the surrounding White Legs. _She_ was hidden from the sight of all, but all felt the weight of its presence, even if they did not know it.

“Almost tempted to let it finish the job,” Salt-Upon-Wounds mused. “Would be an end to an irritating, if beautiful, thorn in my side.”

His gaze raked down her body then. “And you are beautiful.”

He took another step forward. Now very little space separated the two. Salt-Upon-Wounds lifted a calloused hand, cupping her face with what could almost have been called gentleness. She closed her eyes at his touch, but otherwise gave no reaction to this invasion of her space.

“I may have use for you yet,” He murmured, leaning down so that their brows were almost touching. “So silent now…I wonder, how might that be changed?”

His keen gaze noted the rigidity of her posture. Every muscle in her body was tensed, not in preparation for sudden movement, but rather to keep from trembling. Salt-Upon-Wounds lightly brushed the pad of his thumb across the starburst-shaped scars on her brow, and his expression was almost tender.

“Legatus Malpais burned you, didn’t he?” He said softly. “I see it in your face. You thought you could temper that flame of his, and only ended up burning yourself, you poor, foolish woman. And now here you stand, among all who would destroy you. Will you now despair?”

The woman kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, staring at the contours of his collarbone. Salt-Upon-Wounds knew, as did she, that if she made any sound at all, she would shatter. But she held her silence, her lips pressed into a thin line.

The warlord raised his head, casting a contemplative glance across the White Legs who had gathered around, more than a few of whom were regarding the newcomer with hunger in their eyes.

“You are beautiful,” He said again, returning his gaze to the woman’s face and tracing the outline of her jaw. Then he licked his lips and stepped back. “But I shall not take you to bed. I love Kore too much for that. No one shall touch you…for now.”

He stepped aside then, and nodded to a place seemingly unoccupied, before escorting the still-bound woman up the bank towards his tent. A few White Legs made as if to follow, but all of them saw the tiniest shimmer of bent light just behind the woman’s shoulder, and all turned away with a fearful shudder.

Salt-Upon-Wounds paused at the tent flap, taking in one last look at the woman’s face. “Perhaps you will be my gift to Caesar,” he mused, “a token of gratitude for allowing my tribe into the Many. Perhaps you will be the one to lay at his feet the head of the Burned Man.”

The woman spoke for the first time. “Or maybe I’ll lay yours at his.”

She looked up, red-rimmed eyes meeting Salt-Upon-Wounds’ gaze, and behind overwhelming despair, there smoldered a final defiance.

After several heartbeats of tense silence, Salt-Upon-Wounds smiled, but his eyes were as cold as a glacier.

“Already tempted to break my promise to Kore,” he remarked, taking her face with much less gentleness this time, his fingers digging into her jaw. “If only to teach you some respect. But I think this will do.”

With this, he backhanded her hard across the face, and thrust her unceremoniously into the tent without another word.

Felina stumbled in the shade, her head spinning from the sudden blow. She could feel the tickle of blood trickling down her lip. It was only after several long moments that she could pick up enough pieces to register two things: Salt-Upon-Wounds had not followed her, but the tent was already occupied.

In the shadows, a dark figure rose, a half-woven basket falling from a hide-covered lap. Wide, white eyes stared at Felina from out of a face framed by long, braided hair.

“...Courier Six?” The stranger said, hesitant, as though expecting a denial.

Felina’s brow creased, her smarting cheek momentarily forgotten. “Yes?” She replied cautiously, “How do you know that?”

The other woman reached out a hand. Felina flinched, half-expecting another blow, but she only brushed a drop of blood from her lip, and stared at the smear on her hand as though scarcely able to believe what she was seeing.

“Thought you were dead,” She said, half to herself. Then she looked back at Felina’s face and made a visible effort to compose herself. “I am Anticlea Kore. Or just Kore.”

“…Felina,” Felina replied, wiping blood from her lip with her sleeve. Remembering what Joshua had said about the White Legs and women, cautious hope of a potential ally appeared. This woman certainly carried herself with much more dignity than a common Legion slave. “Salt-Upon-Wounds said he wouldn’t touch me for your sake.”

Kore nodded, her expression impassive, as though she had expected this. “Yes. He keeps his word on little, but he shall keep it on this.”

She returned to her basket, and Felina followed, realizing just how tired she was. The pair sat together in a beam of sunlight filtering in through a gap in the tent fabric.

“How did you know who I am?” Felina asked, wrapping her arms around her legs and pillowing her chin on her knees, perhaps as an unconscious defense mechanism in hostile territory.

Kore hesitated, casting a glance towards the tent flap in case of eavesdroppers, but the sound of Salt-Upon-Wounds barking orders outside indicated the two women possessed privacy, however fleeting. “I did not,” She finally admitted, keeping her voice low. “Took a gamble.”

“What do you mean?”

“Zion’s Bane watched the arrival of your caravan. Brought word to Salt-Upon-Wounds, and you matched description to the letter. Didn’t know if it was really you, but I decided to take a chance. Couldn’t stop the White Legs, but I could stay the creature, on that occasion at least.”

For several seconds, Felina could only stare, trying to process this information. “Wait,” She sputtered, only just remembering to lower her voice, “that was _you?_ The reason that monster didn’t kill me like everyone else— _you_ did that?”

Kore’s agile hands never ceased their weaving. “Salt-Upon-Wounds said to destroy the caravan. Didn’t say to leave no survivors. I believe the outlander’s term is _loophole?”_

Felina sat flabbergasted. The question that had been sitting in the back of her mind ever since she lay wounded upon the bighorner hide had finally been answered. But for every mystery this new information solved, a dozen more cropped up in its place.

“Well I’ll be a son of a—” Finally she threw up her hands, all exhaustion thrown by the wayside. “So wait, you told _She_ to spare my life, and it just _listened_ to you?”

Kore frowned. _“’She?’”_

“What the locals call Zion’s Bane,” Felina explained hastily, waving a dismissive hand. “You can command it?”

“…In part,” The other woman replied after a moment’s consideration. “Don’t know the full way of it, but it calls me _mother,_ and heeds my commands for that. Can’t contradict Salt-Upon-Wounds though—he holds the true mastery.”

“I see,” Felina murmured. Her brow was furrowed, her mind working furiously, putting pieces together as fast as she could manage. “But that still doesn’t explain how you knew what I looked like with enough confidence to tell _She_ not to kill me.”

Kore’s hands momentarily stilled, her gaze becoming distant. “That is part of a long and tragic tale that has not yet ended,” She said, her voice soft and sad. “But for now, I shall tell you that my son knew you once, long ago.”

“Your son?”

“His name when I knew him was Crow’s Flight.” Kore resumed work on her basket, as though to distract from painful memories. “When the Legion came, he took a new one, and I know it not.”

_“Crow’s Flight,”_ Felina echoed, trying to recall if she’d ever met anyone by that name. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Though my memory hasn’t been the best lately.”

She gave a heavy sigh, the weighing down of her spirit returning at the lull in conversation, pressing her forehead to her knees. “God,” She mumbled, “Ever think you’ve reached your maximum capacity for pain, but the universe comes along and proves you wrong, then again, and again?”

Kore gave a silent nod. Felina watched her through half-closed eyes. She reminded Felina of Gran, her adoptive mother back home in Grand Teton, with hands gentle enough to cup newborn chicks, yet strong enough to defend home and hearth against overwhelming odds. Kore deserved better than Salt-Upon-Wounds.

Shadows crept slowly across the hard-packed earth. Felina drifted into exhausted slumber, slumped against one of the tent’s supports, lulled by the faint rustle of weaving. Kore studied her face, relaxed in sleep, and her thoughts were far-flung.

A dry wind stirred the tent flap. No eye could have seen its arrival; Zion’s Bane was simply there.

Kore looked up and saw it pacing silently between the scattered shadows, which seemed to recoil before its presence. But she looked at its scarred form with only pity.

The creature halted a few paces away. Kore, sitting, saw that it stood only a little taller than her. It bowed its head to her as reverently as it would its master.

**Mother,** it said, in its language without words, **Mother, you are safe. The outlander shall not harm you.**

Kore shrugged. “Knew that already.”

**The Legate’s fire grows.**

“So I’ve heard. Suppose it’s all he has left now.”

**Mother, will you name me?**

Kore glared at the slight, delicate being before her. “Told you already, I don’t know your name. Only Salt-Upon-Wounds does.”

Zion’s Bane inclined its head towards the sound of the chieftain’s voice emanating from down the bank. Its eyes were the pitiless vastness of the endless sky. **You said you do not hate him,** said _She,_ **and you do not hate him. But neither do you love him.**

Kore shuddered at its voice and dropped her gaze. “Even if I knew your name, I couldn’t name you,” she muttered. “Not my place.”

**Then sorrow shall be known to me.**

“I’m sorry, but sometimes that’s the way of it.”

**Not so for the Sorrows.**

With this, _She_ turned, not sparing a single glance for Felina’s undisturbed slumber, and departed as silently as it had come. Kore did not even see it go; its presence simply ceased to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone has a blessed Easter!


	17. The Latest Sun is Sinking Fast

“Waking Cloud?”

The Sorrows woman stepped from behind the waterfall, and saw a bandaged figure awaiting her. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said gently, “but I need to know if you’ve seen Felina or Follows-Chalk. I…they’ve both gone missing, and I hoped they might have come here.”

Waking Cloud shook her head, and Joshua bowed his head wearily, as though he had already expected this.

“Then Salt-Upon-Wounds must have gotten to them,” he murmured, and his voice burned. “He’s not stupid enough to kill them both yet, but I fear for them regardless.”

He lifted his head, meeting Waking Cloud’s gaze, she shivered at the blue fire in his eyes. “This is no time for half measures,” he growled, but his anger was not at her. “Find White Bird. Tell him I want every adult in the tribe, male or female, who is capable of holding a weapon. Zion shall sit idle no more. We shall deliver our own out of the hands of evil, or we shall avenge their deaths.”

His words, though strong with resolution, still carried an undercurrent of doubt that was not lost to Waking Cloud.

“And if we cannot?” She asked quietly.

Joshua was silent for a moment. Then he took a shuddering breath and said, “If we cannot, then…well, everything else has already been taken from me.”

Here he turned his gaze to the clifftops. “Find White Bird,” he said again, “and wait for me. I will not be long.”

The afternoon sun shone down on the bandage-wrapped figure ascending the winding trail up the cliffs of the Narrows. The Burned Man crested the top, and stood to catch his breath, gazing at the simple wooden cross that stood like a watchful guardian over the Sorrows camp. The base of the cairn was littered with half-wilted flowers, small wooden carvings, beads, and other various tokens of gratitude. Truly, the Sorrows mourned the loss of a dear friend.

“Brother, I must apologize,” Joshua said, sinking to his knees before the lonely grave. “I know this isn’t what you wanted. But the White Legs have taken Chalk and Felina, and the Dead Horses alone aren’t enough to stop them. I cannot lose anyone else, Daniel, I simply cannot take the loss.”

His voice wavered, and he halted, trying desperately to regain his composure.

“I wish you were here,” he whispered.

In that moment, his years seemed to catch up to him. For a time, he was just a broken old man, staving off the inevitable, devouring, hungry death that had already claimed so many he held dear. His bandages seemed to wrap tighter about him, choking out what little life remained in what should have long-ago been a desiccated husk at the bottom of the Grand Canyon.

On instinct, Joshua’s hand went to the pocket of his vest, pulling out his weathered and beaten Bible. He gazed at the water-stained, yellow-paged book in his lap, and after a moment’s hesitation, opened it with no particular destination. Fanning through pages, he landed on a section towards the back of the book and stared at the tiny print, hoping the answer to all his problems would suddenly spring forth.

_There is no fear in love,_ the text read, _but perfect love casteth out fear._

Memory surfaced in Joshua’s mind of himself and Daniel, sitting alone by firelight, and his whispered confession: _I do not want to love her. I will burn her if I do._

Well, he had certainly burned her, he thought bitterly, no love was even required for that. Was he then truly incapable of it? Was he a fool for even considering otherwise?

But another memory nagged at his mind, that of Felina slumped on the riverbank, and of the overwhelming sense of compassion that had washed over him at the sight. What he had wanted more than anything else in that moment, was to care for her, to protect her. Certainly not because she was somehow incapable of protecting herself, but out of a sense of duty.

Joshua stared again at the text, which flung itself unashamedly back at him: _he that feareth is not made perfect in love._

He was born in fear, as was every man who ever lived. Yet perfect love casts out fear.

But how?

The Burned Man lifted his head, and beheld the cross before him.

* * *

 

The Sorrows gathered in the center of camp, every able-bodied adult assembled in a small ocean of brown skin, hide garments, and rain tattoos. Murmurs spread like ripples through the masses as the figure of the Burned Man was spotted descending the winding trail from the clifftops above, still gripping his Bible in one hand.

White Bird approached, his gaze a mixture of curiosity and worry. Joshua dipped his head politely to the Sorrows’ chieftain.

“Thank you for doing this,” said the Burned Man. “I did not want it to come to this, but there is no other way to ensure the safety of Zion.”

The tribal gave a solemn nod. “Do as you will, friend of Daniel.”

Here he stepped back and allowed Graham to address the assembled Sorrows. The Burned Man looked out over the sea of faces, and uncomfortable memories surfaced of the many times he had addressed crowds of legionaries to prepare for battle, or spoken to a group of captive wastelanders, assuring them that all would be well, moments before opening fire.

But that was then, he reminded himself, flexing a reassuring grip on his Bible. This was now.

“People of Zion,” he began, and soft gasps arose from the crowd, for he addressed them in their native tongue, “words cannot express my sorrow at having brought into your home those Legion dogs that call themselves men. It is true that not long ago, I would have led them in doing unspeakable things to you and your valley. But God’s light shone into my life, and he delivered me from my own beloved darkness. Now, the time has come for me to return the favor.

“Arise, sons and daughters of Zion! Beat your ploughshares into swords, and your pruninghooks into spears, and declare to the Legion and Salt-Upon-Wounds that you are not weak, you are strong! You will not be the eighty-eighth tribe, but neither will you be trampled into the dust of history beneath the hooves of the Bull. And you will defend your home, the perfection of beauty, until your dying breath!”

Here Graham faltered, turning his face to the clifftops. “But if we forget those who passed before us,” he went on, his voice becoming heavy with sorrow, “then let our hands forget their cunning. But the Lord remembers his enemies, and shall reward them as they have served us.”

Looking out over the Sorrows, Joshua suddenly felt small, insignificant, another ant among ants. But he could see the light of resolution ignited in dozens of dark eyes. For a shining moment, the most beautiful moment he had known in a long time, hope was kindled.

Then White Bird said, “What of the Ghost of _She?”_

The assembled tribals shivered as one. Fear replaced boldness, bare feet shuffling uncertainly in the dirt.

They did not fear the White Legs, Joshua thought, nor even Salt-Upon-Wounds. But one mention of Zion’s Bane set them to cowering like bighorners before a deathclaw.

“Leave _She_ to me,” he said, and hoped his confidence was real.

Below in the crowd, Waking Cloud gazed at the bandage-shrouded figure, and saw how differently he stood from Daniel, but also how alike. And she heard again that small, silver voice:

_See the truth and speak!_

* * *

 

Water streamed from Felina’s face as she lifted her head from its submersion in the frigid river. Wringing out her hair, she frowned at the mat of tangles before slinging it behind her head once more, using her fingers to try and separate the strands as best she could.

“Damned Happy Trails and their carry limit,” she grumbled, pushing up her sleeves from where they had slid down her arms, “Micromanaged my stuff so much I forgot a comb. Though I guess it wouldn’t matter at this point anyway.”

Kore glanced up from her basket, which now looked to only be missing a few rows. The two women sat on the riverbank down the embankment from Salt-Upon-Wounds’ tent, a small rise in the rocky bank mostly shielding them from the view of the camp. Felina had stayed by Kore’s side after an uncomfortable, sleepless night on the dirt floor of Salt-Upon-Wounds’ tent. After their first encounter, the White Legs’ chieftain seemed content to ignore her for the time being, which Felina was grateful for, even if it was only while he decided what to do with her.

“So, what’s your story?” Felina asked Kore, sitting cross-legged beside the dark-skinned woman. “Except for the braids, you don’t look much like a White Leg. And your name, it sounds kind of…”

“Legion?” Kore finished, “Yes. Caesar’s Fox thought it amusingly fitting. Legion took my old name, as they took everything of Dry Wells.”

Here her face became a little sadder. And she amended her statement with a softer, “of Dry Wells-That-Was.”

She gazed into the passing river, at the wavering reflection of the opposite cliffs, and the sky above. “Thought at first they were allies,” she went on bitterly.  “Should’ve known better. Allies only until our usefulness was at an end. _Pacification,_ the Legion called it. But it was forced assimilation. All who resisted were crucified; I was to be one of them.”

“Wasn’t your son there?” Felina asked, feeling empathy for the other woman as she recalled her own experiences with the Legion. “Couldn’t he vouch for you?”

Kore shook her head slowly, her braids forming a curtain that hid her face in shadow. “Crow’s Flight was one of the legionaries blockading escape routes. Couldn’t get to him. Would’ve been crucified, would’ve welcomed it at that point. Didn’t have anywhere else to turn.”

Felina waited patiently as painful memories worked their way across the other woman’s face, before fading behind a mask of composure once more.

“Salt-Upon-Wounds intervened,” Kore went on, speaking as though the White Legs’ chieftain had instead sentenced her to death. “Fox let him have me, smiled as he gave me a new name: _Anticlea Kore._ And so here I am.”

“I’m sorry,” Felina murmured in sympathy, “that sounds horrible.”

Kore resumed her weaving in silence. After several minutes of watching the river pass, another thought occurred to Felina.

“When your tribe was allies with the Legion,” she said cautiously, “did…did you ever see the Malpais Legate?”

Kore exhaled in the barest hint of amusement. “Was wondering when you’d ask,” she murmured, half to herself. Then she answered, “Saw him on occasion, during the Legion’s campaign in Arizona. His combat ability was unparalleled; even his successor Lanius could not hope to best him.”

“What did he look like?” Felina pressed, realizing she’d never seen Joshua’s full face under the bandages, only his eyes. She shivered at the memory of the blue fire that had blazed in them when they last spoke.

“His face then was almost more dreadful than now,” Kore recalled. “Dreadful, because it was a face that had once been kind, and did not know—or, perhaps chose not to know—that it had ceased to be so.”

“Ah.” Felina had been expecting something along the lines of _severe_ or _stern,_ or other such uninteresting adjectives. “Uh…neat.”

Propping her chin on her knees, the Courier stared again into the passing river. She wondered what Joshua was doing. Was he looking for her? Was he still angry with her? Had he become fed up with her constant moral appeals and just left her to the White Legs?

Hot tears pricked at her eyes. She had gotten herself into this mess. Willingly or not, this was her fault. But who could she turn to for help? She had driven all her allies away from her.

A silky voice whispered through her memory. _“All roads lead to me.”_

Was it true then? Was the Fox right after all? It certainly seemed so. How he would laugh when she was delivered to Caesar, how he would mock her. And she could not convince herself that she would not deserve it.

Another memory entered her mind, that of faded print on a yellowed page. _In him was life, and the life was the light of men._

But what kind of life? Slavery no different from the Legion? The weight of a conscience bearing down on her, denying her true self as she strove to achieve the impossible?

_“Does knowing my identity make my words any less true?”_ The Fox’s voice echoed in the stillness of her thoughts.

_And the light shineth in the darkness…_

_“No gods, no masters.”_

_…and the darkness comprehended it not._

Felina clamped her hands to her ears, as though to shut out the voices that existed only in her mind. _I don’t need you,_ she thought resolutely, _none of you! I’ll find my way myself._

She stared across the river at the opposing cliffs, which seemed to scrape the sky, so high did they stretch above the camp. And as she studied the contours of the rock face, her gaze was drawn to a winding path so tiny that it may as well have been a bighorner trail. But it started at the river and meandered perhaps fifty feet up the rocks, vanishing into a dark crevasse disguised as a mere shadow.

“What’s that?” Felina asked, pointing to the place. “Looks like a cave or something.”

Kore responded without looking up. “That is Three Marys caverns. Haven’t explored it much, but the proper route can lead to near the entrance of the canyon. Other paths lead deeper in, though how deep I know not.”

Here she looked over at Felina, who was staring intently at the crack. “Wouldn’t try escaping that way if I were you. White Legs guard the interior. Out here they may obey Salt-Upon-Wounds’ command to leave you be, but in the dark they will not be bound by even him.”

Felina shuddered at the implications, her flicker of hope quickly extinguished. So much for an escape route.

The river passed, and the sun moved slowly across the sky, its warmth drying Felina’s hair. The Courier stared into space, daydreaming about everything and nothing, and wishing she was someplace else. She could not say how much time passed when she detected a slight disturbance of her hair that was not wind.

Glancing back, she saw Kore had set her basket aside and moved to a position just behind her, her agile hands expertly intertwining a few strands of fair hair. “What are you doing?” Felina asked.

“Braiding you,” Kore replied, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Felina blinked. “Um. Why?”

“So that any who know may read the way of my tribe.”

“But I’m not one of your tribe,” Felina protested. “Wouldn’t it seem like I just took it, without knowing what it means?”

Kore halted. She broke off twisting strands of hair and moved around to look Felina in the face. “My tribe is dead, Courier,” she stated simply. “And I am not so foolish as to let the way of it perish for the sake of mere pride. I make this gift to you so that my son, if he lives, may read it, and know that not all our history need end in defilement. Better a braid given in respect than taken in ignorance.”

“Oh, uh…thank you, then,” Felina murmured, feeling a little better now. She sat, patient as Kore returned to her work, her gentle hands never tugging or pulling a stray hair.

“There.” Kore twisted the last few hairs, knotting them securely. “Now, if any of my tribe remain, they may read it and know that they are not so wholly destroyed.”

The braid, about the length of Felina’s hand, hung woven from strands a little behind her left ear. Felina ran her fingers curiously along its length, wondering what it looked like, before binding it up with the rest of her hair in a ponytail.

“Keeping our guest company, beloved?”

The heads of both women turned to see Salt-Upon-Wounds approaching. Intense blue eyes studied Felina, his free hand toying idly with the mechanisms of his power fist.

Kore bowed her head in silence, her posture subservient, yet, Felina noticed, unafraid.

“Leave us,” Salt-Upon-Wounds ordered, not taking his gaze from the Courier.

Felina’s heart beat a little faster. Silently she begged Kore to stay, but the other woman rose with all the grace of a dancer, her dark eyes only flickering the briefest of glances to Felina. Her basket gripped in her hands, she passed Salt-Upon-Wounds, who inclined his head back to follow her until he heard the rustle of the tent flap indicating her departure.

Now alone with the White Legs’ chieftain, Felina’s heartrate soared, though she tried desperately to keep a level expression. She remained sitting as Salt-Upon-Wounds paced slowly toward her, his head slightly tilted.

Then he said, “Look behind me, outlander. What do you see?”

Felina’s brow furrowed. Puzzlement momentarily replacing fear, she looked past the pale figure of the tribal, towards the camp of the White Legs and the rock face beyond. Nothing in particular could catch her eye.

“I don’t see anything,” she said.

“Look again,” said Salt-Upon-Wounds.

This time, Zion’s Bane revealed itself.

Felina screamed, crumpling into a heap and drawing her knees up to her chin, covering her eyes in a desperate, futile attempt to un-see the monstrous yao guai.

Salt-Upon-Wounds stood over her, _She_ at his shoulder. He did not step away from its nearness, though he might have wished to. After all, he was master here. Instead he crouched in the dirt beside Felina’s convulsing form, taking her face in his hands and forcing her to look up at him, at Zion’s Bane looming over his shoulder.

Shivering with terror, Felina’s eyes rolled, seeking anything else to look at rather than _She,_ but the only alternative was Salt-Upon-Wounds. So she stared at him, the pain of his power fist crushing her face as nothing compared to the pain that was the sight of Zion’s Bane.

“Listen to me, outlander,” Salt-Upon-Wounds ordered, “Listen well. Zion’s Bane heeds my commands; its name was given me by the Fox himself. But you are another matter. Aren’t bound to me as the beast is. But you will do as I say.”

His grip tightening on Felina’s gasping face, the chieftain’s eyes narrowed into slits of ice. “Do you hear me, woman of the West?”


	18. Go out and Bring Me Lazarus

“Yes, now simply—yes, that’s right—simply aim at the target, keep yourself braced, and pull the trigger.”

Joshua stepped back, keeping a critical eye on the posture of Dancing Flame, a Sorrows hunter, as he nervously aimed a .45 at a dummy some yards away. Licking his lips, the painted man pulled the trigger. His yelp was drowned by the resulting gunshot, the recoil combined with his nerves causing him to lose his grip on the weapon. The shot went wide, and the pistol clattered to the dirt.

Resisting a sigh of frustration, the Burned Man bent to pick up the weapon. Dancing Flame’s jitters at handling firearms mirrored that of much of the Sorrows tribe. Unlike the Dead Horses, many of the natives of Zion had never seen a gun before the arrival of the New Canaanites, much less fired one. The closest they came to ranged weaponry was the odd sling here and there, but their main form of defense was the yao guai gauntlets almost every grown Sorrow carried. Suitable against the wildlife of Zion perhaps, but practically useless against firearms.

“You needn’t be afraid of the weapon,” The Burned Man assured Dancing Flame, taking up a stance before the dummy. “It is a tool, the same as any other, and will only do what you tell it to do.”

Bracing himself, Joshua aimed at the target and fired thrice, and three times splinters and brush flew from the points of impact. The holes in the dummy’s potato-sack head were so close together that they nearly overlapped.

“See?” The Burned Man spun the weapon around and offered it back to the tribal hilt first. “With practice, it is no different from a sling.”

Dancing Flame took the weapon gingerly, as though it was a poisonous snake, and Joshua sighed internally. Training the Sorrows for battle was proving a more daunting task than he had expected. Every tribe he had previously encountered, even during his Legion days, had at least a passing knowledge of firearms. But the Sorrows were wholly unused to such things.

“Keep practicing,” Joshua urged. “Make every shot count.”

Leaving the tribal to his work, the Burned Man cast a glance down the line of targets, each with a Dead Horse instructing a Sorrow in a similar fashion. The cliffs above the Eastern Virgin had become a beehive of activity, with every able-bodied Sorrow temporarily migrating across the valley under cover of night in preparation for the storming of the Three Marys.

Descending the rocky trail towards the camp below, Joshua caught sight of Waking Cloud, her gauntlet strapped to her arm, sparring with a Dead Horse wielding a club. Though little acquainted with the Sorrows’ midwife, he wondered how she was faring after Daniel’s death. She was already widowed, Joshua knew, and had no children as far as he could tell. The word of God had been a beacon into her life, a light of hope into her lonely existence. Daniel had often spoken of how she listened intently to every word he read, asking questions, carefully considering each answer, and asking more questions. She had been among the first to be baptized in the waters of the Virgin, and Joshua supposed that Daniel’s death was the first true test of her faith. Had it driven her away from God, as it had Felina, or closer?

Passing into the shade of Angel Cave, the Burned Man gazed sadly at the Courier’s shotgun leaning beside the bighorner hide, at the thin layer of dust beginning to accrue on her helmet and bag. Her pistol and knife were missing—likely taken with her when he had driven her away. What a fool he was.

But she was not abandoned, Joshua reminded himself, grabbing a canteen of water and striding for the light of day once more. They were coming for her, for her and Chalk both.

Pulling down the bandages from over his mouth, the Burned Man sipped from the canteen, and found his thoughts turning to _She._ White Bird was right—Zion’s Bane would prove to be the biggest obstacle between them and victory. The White Legs, while dangerous savages, were still familiar, nothing he hadn’t dealt with countless times during the Legion’s campaigns. But the Ghost of _She_ was utterly foreign to him, a monster with no obvious weaknesses commanded by Salt-Upon-Wounds himself.

Joshua drained the last few sips from the canteen, and replaced the bandages over his mouth, shielding his charred lips from the air once more. He rolled his stiff shoulders, mentally preparing himself to engage once more with the increasingly hopeless firearms training of the Sorrows.

He had just begun to turn back from the bank when movement caught his eye. Shielding his gaze against the sun, Joshua squinted down the river and saw a slight figure rounding the bend, wading through the waters. Black shirt, dusty jeans, fair hair.

Realization nearly knocked the breath from his lungs. He started forward, dropping the canteen. “Felina!”

At the sound of his voice, the woman caught sight of him, and an expression of utter terror came over her face. She spun around, nearly falling in the knee-deep water, and began splashing back the way she had come.

“Felina, wait!” Joshua leaped into the river, wading after her as fast as the water would allow. Realization flashed through his mind that she was still afraid of him. “I’m not angry at you anymore! Come back!”

Cursing himself and his temper, the Burned Man sloshed his way through the canyon, his gaze fixed on Felina’s retreating figure. She reached the entrance of the canyon and began scrabbling up the hill, gaining ground now that the water no longer impeded her. She cleared the rise just as Joshua reached the bank and vanished onto the ruined road.

 Controlling his breathing, Joshua loped up the hill, his bandages tightening and loosening about his torso in time with his regulated breaths. If there was one skill he knew better than any other, it was how to chase.

Felina’s figure could still be seen down the ruined road as the Burned Man cleared the hill. She was sprinting as fast as her legs could carry her, at a pace Joshua knew could not last long. He set off in pursuit, his wet boots squelching on the cracked pavement, mentally calculating how long it would take before she ran out of steam.

As the Burned Man predicted, Felina’s pace soon began to flag. Still, she continued onward, the cliffs of the Eastern Virgin fading behind her, until finally staggering to a halt outside some Old World building. She leaned against a shattered roadsign, its pieces scattered about her feet like fallen leaves, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Felina.”

Joshua saw the tightening of her shoulders, heard the hitch in her breath at his voice. He approached slowly, wary of spooking her. She would not look at him.

“Felina, I’m not angry at you anymore,” he tried to assure her. “My behavior was inexcusable. Can you forgive me?”

She said nothing, did not turn to him. Her labored breathing was punctuated by the odd hiccup.

“Felina, look at me.”

Slowly, the Courier turned to face him, her boots crunching on the shards of metal beneath her feet. Tearstains traced paths down her reddened, dusty cheeks, her gaze fixed on the ground. Her posture was rigid, her arms wrapped about her midriff.

Joshua stepped forward, reaching out hesitantly, wanting to reassure her, to comfort her, but also afraid to touch her. Throughout all, she hadn’t stopped crying.

“Felina, you’ve nothing to fear,” he said, as gently as he could manage. “What’s wrong?”

This display of tenderness only made her cry harder. She shied away from his touch, shaking her head, unable to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, her voice little more than a whisper. “He said he’d kill Chalk if I didn’t.”

“What are you—”

Decades of instinct set Joshua’s body in motion almost before he realized it. He swung around, driving his elbow into the jaw of the White Leg creeping up behind him, sending the tribal reeling back. But this did not stop the second painted figure flanking his other side from clubbing the Burned Man savagely over the head with the hilt of a submachine gun. Joshua staggered, his vision fogging as more White Legs swarmed from hiding, seizing his arms and knocking his knees out from under him.

Felina buried her face in her hands to shut out the sight of her betrayal. A calloused hand closed on her arm, and she could not deafen herself to the voice of Salt-Upon-Wounds whispering in her ear:

“Excellent work, outlander. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

The woman crumpled to her knees, her face hidden. Salt-Upon-Wounds scarcely seemed to notice, only stepping around her quivering form to cast a thoughtful gaze upon the half-stunned figure of the Burned Man.

“Your years have made you soft, Legatus,” the chieftain remarked as his subordinates bound the other man’s hands behind his back with tough cords. “Only a handful of years ago you would have spitted my warriors on the end of your blade the moment they were within reach.”

Salt-Upon-Wounds shook his head, as though disappointed. “And now you let your guard down for the sake of one woman.”

Here he bent down, combing the fingers of his power fist through the tangles of Felina’s hair. She did not look up, but her breath hitched at his touch.

“Take your hands off her, you dog,” Joshua snarled, his blue eyes narrowed both from anger and from trying to see clearly through the pain of his bludgeoning.

 Salt-Upon-Wounds seemed mildly surprised by this command, for he straightened, and regarded the Burned Man with a look that bordered on amusement. “Oh?”

“Dare to lay a hand on her again,” Joshua warned, his voice low and dangerous, “and it will be the last time you have hands.”

“Violent words for a man of God,” Observed the chieftain, reaching down and removing Joshua’s pistol from his hip. He hefted the weapon admirably, testing its balance, before thrusting it into the back of his hide waistband. “Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

He leaned down again and grabbed Felina’s arm, forcing her upright. She stood, swaying slightly, her hands balled into fists at her sides. Salt-Upon-Wounds turned again to the bandage-swathed man kneeling before him. “This valley has been troublesome for me. I look forward to salting its earth when my work here is done.”

Though dizzy with pain, Joshua suddenly saw Felina’s eyes. Her gaze, previously fixed on the ground, had locked on Salt-Upon-Wounds, and a fire burned in it that he had never before seen, not even when they had fought. Silently he tried to warn her to stop, but she was already moving.

With a swiftness that belied her emotional state, Felina seized Joshua’s pistol from the chieftain’s waistband, wrapping her other arm around his pale neck in a chokehold and pressing the gun to his temple. The surrounding White Legs tensed as one, fixing her in the sights of four submachine guns.

“Let him go,” Felina snarled, in that moment appearing more animal than human. Her teeth bared a challenge at the surrounding White Legs, daring them to cross her.

“You’re even more foolish than I first thought,” Salt-Upon-Wounds said, seemingly nonplussed by the gun at his head. “When this is over, perhaps I shall break my vow after all.”

“Let him go,” Felina growled again, tightening her chokehold. “Let him go or I will unload this thing, I swear to Christ!”

Each passing second seemed to last an eternity. The four White Leg warriors aimed point-blank, two at Joshua, two at Felina, who maintained her position. None of them could miss.

Then, Salt-Upon-Wounds nodded.

The surrounding White Legs stepped back, not by command, but out of fear. Joshua, still bound on his knees, strained against the cords without realizing until they cut into his wrists, and even then he did not stop—every instinct screamed to shield his face from that which now loomed just behind Felina’s shoulder, but he could not.

Felina felt the heat of flame on her back. Heat that was not warm. No breath ghosted over her neck, not a sound came from behind her. But she knew what stood there as surely as she knew her own existence.

A choking gasp escaped her throat, a gasp of utter terror. But she tightened her hold on Salt-Upon-Wounds with a strength born of desperation. The White Leg could feel her heart racing at his back.

Joshua watched, wide-eyed, every muscle in his body tensed. A shock ran through him as he realized that Felina was absolutely prepared to go through with her threat. Zion’s Bane be damned, the Courier was ready to throw aside all her moral convictions in order to see him free.

“You _are_ a stubborn one, aren’t you?” If Salt-Upon-Wounds was himself unnerved by the presence of _She,_ he did not show it. He only commanded, “Beast.”

Felina could not see the creature behind her; she only saw Joshua’s eyes grow somehow even wider, shot through with terror as the monstrous yao guai lifted a colossal paw, moving with the inevitability and continent-destroying strength of waves breaking on the shore.

The claws of Zion’s Bane pierced her flesh as silently and delicately as a needle pierces silk. Four spikes of cold fire seared across her shoulders, down her spine, into the marrow of her bones. It was pain like nothing she’d ever felt, not even from cauterization. She ground her teeth against the agony, a sheen of sweat breaking out on her brow. But she did not loosen her hold. Though the pain of holding tensed the pierced muscles was overwhelming, she did not budge her chokehold, did not lower her weapon.

Salt-Upon-Wounds’ eyes narrowed. Even he had not been expecting such a reaction—or rather the lack thereof, and her grip was actually beginning to become uncomfortable. He nodded again.

_She_ dug its claws in deeper. It gave a long, slow blink of its pitiless eyes, as though even it was curious as to the response it would garner. Then it began pulling slowly downward, razor claws parting flesh as easily as a knife through warm butter. Darker stains spread across the dark of Felina’s shirt, which tore just as easily as her skin.

Joshua roared and tried to struggle upright, only to be swiftly clubbed down again. He could only watch, helpless, as Felina’s back arched, straining, her chest heaving in labored breaths, tendons standing out like cords on her neck. A keening whine escaped her throat.

She wasn’t giving up, Joshua realized. And she wouldn’t, not until the claws of Zion’s Bane eviscerated her completely. He had to stop her.

“Felina.” His voice sounded distant to her, far-off and clouded. “Felina, stand down.”

She locked eyes with him, panting, sweat gleaming on her face, silently pleading.

“That’s an order,” Joshua insisted. Then he continued, softer, “Don’t be afraid.”

Her hands trembling from adrenaline and pain, Felina lowered the pistol from Salt-Upon-Wounds’ head, relaxing her chokehold. Each movement with the claws still embedded in her back was agony, until they withdrew as silently and neatly as they had come, leaving only the sensation of blood oozing down her spine.

It took every ounce of her remaining strength to remain standing, and she scarcely noticed when Salt-Upon-Wounds removed Joshua’s pistol from her grip, handing it to one of the waiting White Legs.

The chieftain massaged his throat, staring at Felina’s trembling figure as though he found himself forced to form an entirely new opinion on her.

Then he said, “Bind her as well. Seems the Legatus isn’t the only one we need take caution with.”

As Felina’s hands were bound behind her blood-slicked back, Salt-Upon-Wounds turned again to Joshua’s kneeling figure, a faint smile on his lips. “Misjudged your taste in women, Legatus,” he remarked. “Wonder how you would have taken her in your day. A better-matched slave you would not have found in all the land.”

A deep growl threatened in Joshua’s throat, his eyes narrowing to slits of blue fire. But he did not dignify the comments with a response, only allowing the White Legs to haul him upright.

“I’m proud of you, Felina,” he murmured as he was hustled past her. “it’s alright; the Lord shall work through this.”

Felina replied, her voice tight and shaking with pain. “No, he won’t.”

Joshua’s heart sank. But he could speak no more, for with Zion’s Bane at their backs, the White Legs drove Courier and Burned Man along the ruined road. Joshua’s hands clenched into fists behind him, not only from barely-contained fury, but to conceal the shard of metal he had slipped beneath his bandages, and now held tight against his charred palm.

The red cliffs of Zion swallowed them up.


	19. Time and Mercy Is out of Your Reach

The Three Marys loomed ever larger, its towering cliffs waiting like silent sentinels, watching as its prey approached, one swathed in bandages, the other pale and blood-soaked.

Joshua scarcely noticed the approaching cliffs—his gaze was fixed on Felina, who was forced to be half-carried by two White Legs gripping her under the arms. Barely conscious from pain and blood loss, her head lolled, her face an unhealthy pallor.

White Legs met the little group splashing into the canyon entrance. Sentries peered down in fascination as the Burned Man was forced to his knees on the bank, those on the ground forming a loose ring around the two captives. None approached however; wariness of their greatest enemy and his brutal reputation held them back.

Salt-Upon-Wounds glared about at the surrounding crowd. “What cowards are you?” He cried, “That your enemy sits bound before you, and still you do not approach!”

He swung around and approached Joshua’s kneeling form. “Let me show you then! Let me show you that the legendary Burned Man is just that—nothing but a _man!”_

The chieftain punctuated this statement by delivering a stunning blow to Joshua’s jaw with his power fist, driving the other man’s head sideways. A spot of red appeared on the bandages covering the Burned Man’s mouth, the stain slowly spreading.

Emboldened by their leader’s actions, the White Legs surged forward as one. They swarmed Joshua, cruel hands tearing at his bandages, cackling gleefully at his snarls of pain as more and more of his flesh was exposed to the air.

Felina, still bound, was knocked to the ground by White Legs rushing past her, forgotten amidst the mad stampede. Her head spinning from the pain of her wounds, she struggled to push herself upright, but her hands bound behind her ensured her cheek remained firmly planted in the sand. She cried out to Joshua, but her voice was lost amidst the horrible laughter of the White Legs.

Then a low voice urged in her ear, “Felina, get up.”

Twisting her head around, Felina saw the dark form of Kore kneeling at her side, a knife in her hand. With a slash, she severed the Courier’s bonds, hauling her upright and pulling her into the river. No one took any notice of the two women, so focused were they on the object of their pursuit finally at their mercy.

“What about Joshua?” Felina cried, turning back to where the Burned Man was no longer visible beneath the horde of White Legs. “They’ll tear him apart!”

But Kore forced her ahead. “No, they won’t. Follow me.”

Stumbling through the thigh-deep water and gasping with pain, Felina reluctantly did as she was told. Splashing onto the opposite bank, the pair scrabbled up a tiny, rock-strewn trail leading towards a crack in the rock face, beyond which lay only darkness.

“The Dead Horse is held in the caves,” Kore explained as they ascended, keeping her voice low. “I will take you to him. Your back will need binding first though.”

“Chalk?” Hope flared in Felina’s heart, and she almost forgot the pain of her wounds. “Chalk’s in there?”

Her strength renewed, she sent gravel skittering in her wake, pushing herself up the trail after Kore.

Then Zion’s Bane appeared before them.

Felina stumbled, lurching backward and almost falling back down the trail. Only Kore’s hand clamped over her mouth stifled her scream as the dark-skinned woman glared at the beast.

For several seconds, there was only silence. Kore met the fathomless gaze of _She,_ its child’s figure stark against the shadow of the cave behind it. Felina stared in horror at the monstrosity, its claws still stained with her blood, the flames leaping across its hide casting no light into the cavern beyond.

“You won’t hurt me,” Kore said. She spoke not in command, but as if acknowledging a truth that had, until then, been unspoken.

Zion’s Bane replied. Felina could not comprehend its words, for it did not speak to her, but its voice surged terror in her, and she struggled against Kore’s hand, desperately trying to keep from screaming.

Then, after what seemed an eternity, _She_ turned away. It slipped behind all light and passed out of seeing without another word.

“Come on,” Kore said without hesitation, grabbing Felina’s arm and pulling her toward the cave.

“But Joshua—” Felina turned back once more just as a shriek cut the air like a knife.

Below on the bank, White Legs scrambled back, leaving only one painted figure in their captive’s vicinity. The Burned Man had sunk his teeth into the forearm of an unfortunate White Leg, and held on tight as the tribal screamed and beat at his now fully-exposed face with his free hand. At last the painted tribal managed to tear away, stumbling backward with blood pulsing from his arm. Joshua spat out a chunk of flesh and bared bloodstained teeth at Salt-Upon-Wounds.

“The Legion’s fire has not left you I see,” Salt-Upon-Wounds said, approaching the Burned Man’s bound form. Reaching down, he grabbed Joshua by the collar of his shirt, hauling him up until their faces were inches apart, one painted, one ruined. “Tell me, what have you left to fight for? It is clear your god abandoned you when you took the seal of the Bull.

“After all you have done, need you only apologize, and all is well? Better to submit to the flame than to deny the truth of your nature.”

Panting, half-strangled by his own bandages pulled tight about his throat,  Joshua reared back like a striking snake and headbutted the chieftain with all his considerable strength. Salt-Upon-Wounds dropped him, staggering backward as blood trickled from his brow.

After several seconds, the White Leg managed to shake the stars from his vision, and his smile was murderous. “That…that was very foolish, Legatus.”

Joshua met his gaze and did not flinch. “Perhaps you ought to take a head count. Then we may decide who the fool is.”

Salt-Upon-Wounds’ head snapped up to the imprint on the sand where Felina had previously lain, and the footprints leading down to the river. Just as quickly, his hawk-like gaze spotted a pale face among the red rocks an instant before it ducked out of sight into the shadow of Three Marys caverns.

The White Leg roared, venting his frustration by driving his power fist once more into Joshua’s jaw, knocking the Burned Man on his side. “Find that woman!” He bellowed, “and bring her to me!”

He whirled to the nearest two White Legs. “Get brush and light it at the entrance to the caves. Smoke her out!”

Before he could continue, a distant gunshot rang out. A heartbeat later, a sentry crashed to the ground from his perch on the cliffside, blood oozing from a bullet wound in his head. Then another, and another. A far-off cry sounded, a war cry like that of a dying beast, which was then joined by a multitude, coalescing like a wave breaking over the shore.

Joshua Graham spat blood, blue eyes fixing on Salt-Upon-Wounds. “You think I didn’t expect this would happen?” He said, his voice low and fiery. “No longer am I the Legate who does not adapt, who does not make contingency strategies. You think I didn’t plan in case of this?

“Zion is coming for you, Salt-Upon-Wounds. Long has the justice of the Lord slept, but it cannot not sleep forever.”

Salt-Upon-Wounds roared his fury, driving a kick into the prone man’s gut, but Graham’s tough vest absorbed most of the impact.

“You are a fool, Legatus,” the chieftain snarled, beckoning to two White Legs, who seized Joshua under the arms and began dragging him bodily deeper into the canyon. “You may have Zion’s people, but I have its bane!”

At its master’s call, _She_ revealed itself once more, and sparks fell from its maw. Fire lashed from its hide, its abyssal gaze fixed on its master.

“Guard us,” Salt-Upon-Wounds ordered. “You shall have your lawful prey soon enough. For now, slaughter any who get in our way!”

Zion’s Bane bowed its head in subservience, before turning back to the oncoming cries.

As it turned, Joshua caught a glimpse of its neck, and saw there a tiny, red light set in a band of metal, almost indistinguishable from the flames.

His heart stopped. Even as he was dragged deeper into the canyon, he scarcely noticed; his agile mind was working furiously, pieces falling into place one after the other.

How else could Salt-Upon-Wounds control such a beast?

The pain of his exposed flesh became an afterthought, save for the comforting sensation of metal still held tight against his palm. His bindings had prevented the White Legs from tearing the bandages around his hands; now the ends hung in tatters from his wrists, but his clenched fists remained encased in cloth.

The Burned Man allowed himself to be dragged deeper into Three Marys, the oncoming war cries echoing in his ears. Fire seared his veins, burning with purpose, with vengeance.

He knew how to stop Zion’s Bane.

* * *

 

Darkness closed in around Felina and Kore, the light of day fading behind them, and with it seemed to flee all hope. Kore seized a fallen torch, dropped and forgotten by some White Leg, and its weak, orange light sent eerie shadows dancing across jagged rock walls, twisting like agonized wraiths. Felina, gritting her teeth against the pain, kept her gaze fixed on Kore, blocking out all other thoughts and focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.

Deep into the dark the two women ran, twisting and turning beyond all hope of orientation. Signs of the cave’s inhabitants were dotted here and there in the form of hide beds and extinguished torches, but they met no one in their path.

“Let me bind your wounds,” Kore said at last, halting beside a large stalagmite. She laid down her torch and drew her knife, then began cutting the sleeves from Felina’s shirt with swift precision. The torchlight illuminated the drops of sweat beading on the Courier’s brow, but she just bit her lip and kept silent as the other woman cut the dark fabric into long strips.

Felina stared into the shadows, and tried not to think about all the things that might be hiding in them. Chalk was in here, she reminded herself, but the shadows encroached on the torchlight, waiting like ravening beasts pacing just out of reach of its glow.

The pain of Kore tying the makeshift bandages about her ribs was almost a welcome respite to these imagined horrors. Felina inhaled sharply as her wounds were aggravated by the fabric, but Kore was hauling her to her feet before she could protest.

“Why aren’t they following us?” Felina managed to gasp out, the bandages making breathing difficult. “I don’t hear anyone.”

Before Kore could reply, a sharp, acrid odor assaulted both women’s nostrils. An odor that was, to Felina, terribly familiar. Memories flashed through her mind of an all-consuming darkness so very much like that which now surrounded her, and within it, a smiling, hateful face.

Panic surged in her chest. “Run!” She cried, pushing past Kore, only to have her arm caught in the other woman’s vice-like grip.

“Courier, stay calm!” The dark-skinned woman hissed, but one look at Felina’s wild eyes told her that there was no reasoning with her.

The halo surrounding the torch was already beginning to become hazy with smoke, its stench only becoming more apparent. Felina shook her head frantically, unsure whether the spots scattering in her vision were of her panicked breathing, or from the toxic datura, and the uncertainty only added to her skyrocketing heartrate.

“Courier!” Kore cried again, but Felina had already wrenched her arm free.

Stumbling, her limbs ungainly with dread and all-consuming panic, Felina fled deeper into the caves, without light or guide. Joshua was forgotten, Chalk was forgotten, all reason was forgotten, swallowed up in the vastness of utter terror that she had not realized lurked just below the surface, but now wondered how she could have ever put out of her mind. And it was a terror with no hope of light to chase it away.

The scrape of her boots on the stone seemed as unreal as the shadows surrounding her. Felina ran blind, smoke choking her lungs, her breaths sobbing in her throat. Kore’s calls faded into the dark behind her, and she might have run for a day, a month, a year—time did not matter here. All that mattered was escaping the smoke that even now permeated her lungs, and the terror of its workings upon a mind already so addled by pain.

Without warning, the ground gave way before her. Felina screamed, stumbling on the stone, her arms flailing circles in a useless attempt to halt her forward momentum. The darkness broke before her, a chasm of deeper black yawning, tearing beneath her feet.

For a heartbeat, Felina teetered on the edge.

Then she fell into blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay--isn't it just like my computer to break just as I'm getting to the exciting part? Well last night I got sick of waiting and cranked out those last like 650 words in the span of half an hour, so if there are any errors, that's why.


	20. I'll Meet You on God's Golden Shore

Joshua grunted on impact with the hard earth, hissing with the pain of rough stone grinding against his sensitive flesh. Salt-Upon-Wounds stood over him, flexing his power fist thoughtfully. If the chieftain was troubled by the war cries and gunshots echoing down the canyon, he did not show it.

“Do you know, that woman of yours threatened to lay my head at your feet,” he remarked. “Seems you’ve rubbed off on her.”

Here he crouched before Joshua, who bared his teeth at the tribal from his prone position.

“When she is captured,” Salt-Upon-Wounds informed the Burned Man, his voice low as though sharing private information, “I will not kill her. That honor shall go to Zion’s Bane. But you shall watch her scream and die, and know that had she not met you, she would still be alive.

“After this, with her eviscerated corpse in front of your eyes, I will finish what Caesar started. You will burn, Legatus, in a fire of your own creation.”

Had the Burned Man been unbound, he would have flown at the chieftain with a strength born of flame and torn out his painted throat with his bare teeth. But in his current position, he could only strain against the cords that bound him, uncaring of the blood that now soaked the remaining bandages.

It was several moments before the prostrate man could quell his fury enough to form coherent words. But when he spoke, all the nearby White Legs gave a shiver of terror, for his voice was calm—too calm.

“You presume much to think Zion will not have its vengeance first,” Joshua growled, his ruined face made all the more terrible for the fury it contained. “And when it does, pray that you are killed in the heat of battle. Otherwise, I will make sure you scream half a year before you die!”

* * *

 

Darkness shrouds her. It surrounds her on all sides, coiling black upon black.

“No.” Felina’s voice shakes, dreading the presence she knows with utmost certainty now stands behind her. “No. Not again.”

“Yes,” comes the purred reply, and it is a voice she knows all too well.

Felina turns and sees the figure, standing so at home in the blackness, which writhes about his feet like a nest of phantom snakes. His hands are clasped neatly behind his back, as though he has been waiting for her. A smile curves his thin lips, his face a deathly pallor, and the yellow eyes of his dog’s hood stare at her above his own shade-covered gaze.

“My, my,” the Fox remarks, “you _have_ gotten yourself into trouble this time, haven’t you, my _puella?”_

“You!” Felina gasps out, stumbling back away from him, but her feet cannot seem to put any more distance between them. “You—you’re not real!”

“Oh?” The Fox seems mildly amused by this suggestion, giving a slight tilt of his hooded head. “Aren’t I? But do tell me, little girl, did you really think you could save them?”

Felina cannot reply. The darkness seems to choke her, and there is no whisper, no glimmer of light to shine in its depths.

The Fox steps nearer, his canine hood snarling above an eerie smile. “You are abandoned, _puella._ All your friends have deserted you. Those you did not drive away you instead killed, like poor Daniel.”

He sees the grief flooding her eyes at his words, and his smile grows. “Yes, dear Daniel, kind Daniel who snatched you away from me, he is not here to save you anymore.”

“He…he knew what he was doing,” Felina whispers, but her words sound dull and useless. “He saved Joshua…”

“He abandoned you, just as the Dead Horse did, just as the Burned Man drove you away. Did you really think, pathetic girl, that your own imagined self-righteousness would be enough? That you could, what, _rescue_ the Burned Man, when you yourself have nothing to cling to?”

The Fox spreads his arms. “No one is left for you, Felina. Come to me; I am all that you have.”

Felina cannot speak—despair overwhelms her, stealing her voice. She feels as though she is drowning, choking on nothing. But her lips form the word:

“No.”

The Fox roars. He snatches his glasses from his face, and the crack of them shattering in his fist is drowned out by Felina’s scream.

She stares in horror at his eyes, yellow and canine, blazing with amber fire. His bared teeth are black and jagged fangs, almost too large to fit into his mouth. He rages, and black mist swirls away in terror from his stamping feet.

“I am power!” He thunders, “I am dominance! If you will not choose me, I shall have you even so!”

The Fox lunges with unnatural speed, catching Felina in a grip like steel clamps and sinking black teeth into the side of her neck, tearing like a beast pulling from a bone. Felina screams, beating at his form, but it is as though she strikes at nothing. The Fox would not be touched. There are only savaging teeth, a laving tongue, and searing pain.

Then, through the fog of pain and terror, Felina glimpses past the Fox into the distant black. And she sees there what she has both dreaded and longed for, what she has fled from without knowing why she does so. A light, shining in the darkness.

Somehow, Felina tears away from the Fox with a scream of agony as his fangs lose their embedded position in her neck. Gasping, sobbing, she chases after the distant pinprick, shining like a star in the all-encompassing black. Her heart hammers in her chest, overwhelming fear surging through her veins, terror both at what pursues her and what lies ahead.

The Fox roars behind, and the darkness tears beneath her. Felina screams, falling, losing sight of the light amidst the rushing dark. Down into the deep she plummets, and if the dark above is lightless, here it is darker still.

The impact drives the breath from her. Felina lies sobbing ragged breaths, her fingers pressed to her neck, which is wet with her own blood. She squeezes her eyes shut, though in the blackness, it does not matter if they are open or closed.

Someone kneels beside her. Felina does not react—she has given up fighting, given up running. She only waits for the tear of the Fox’s teeth to come again.

“Felina.”

Felina’s eyes fly open. Inky darkness still surrounds her, but there at her side sits one in utter juxtaposition to the deep black.

“Daniel?” Felina can scarcely force out the name, disbelief etched upon her face. For the New Canaanite sits beside her, his wide-brimmed hat and almond-shaped eyes unmistakable.

“Am I—am I dead?” Felina reaches out a hesitant hand, certain he will dissolve the moment she touches him. But he envelopes her slender hand in his calloused ones, and his smile is the same as it has always been.

“Not yet, Courier,” he replies. “But it waits at the door.”

Looking into his eyes, Felina feels sudden shame crushing down upon her. She pulls her hand from his grasp, turning her face away to hide the tears coursing down her cheeks. “I couldn’t save you,” she whimpers. “I couldn’t save Joshua, I couldn’t save Chalk, I couldn’t even save my own integrity.”

“You couldn’t,” Daniel agrees, but there is no accusation in his voice, only sorrow. “And you never can. But Felina, do you think the blood of Christ insufficient to sweep it all away?”

Felina cannot bear to meet his eyes. Blood soaks her neck, pain wrapping around her throat like a collar of molten iron.

“Stand, Felina,” Daniel urges, getting to his feet and clasping Felina’s hand, pulling her upright. “Let me show you.”

He presses something into her palm. Felina looks down and sees her knife, its blade tarnished and scratched, but as sturdy as ever. Then she looks back at Daniel, and sees in his eyes what he is about to ask of her.

“I can’t,” Felina whispers, unable to hold the intensity of his eyes and dropping her gaze. “You saw what just happened. I’m nothing compared to him. I can’t face the Fox.”

Daniel places both hands on Felina’s shoulders. “You need not face him alone,” he says, and she does not resist as he gently turns her to one side.

To look into the Fox’s smiling face.

His dog’s hood has fallen back, exposing his shock of blonde hair, but his eyes remain canine, amber and animal.

“There you are, _puella,”_ he says, and bares black fangs in what could have been either a smile or a snarl. “A fine chase you’ve given me. But I am through with games.”

He spreads his arms, and his Legion garb seems to drip the color of blood. “Come here. Come to my embrace.”

For a moment, Felina forgets Daniel’s hands on her shoulders, forgets the knife in her hand. For a moment, she stands alone in the darkness, staring into the face of its master.

Then Daniel’s voice whispers in her ear, “Don’t be afraid. Speak His name, and He will heed your call.”

Felina’s throat is dry as a bone. But she tightens her grip on her knife and takes a step forward.

“Yes,” purrs the Fox, “Come to me.”

He sees the knife then, and cocks his head, almost in amusement. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

Shaking, her heart racing in her chest, Felina raises her knife and points it at him.

The Fox only gives a bemused smile. “A fine toy,” he remarks, then spreads his hands. “Go on then, little girl, show me the proud warrior the White Legs fear so.”

A small part of Felina’s brain knows he is taunting her, but a larger part sees only a chance to get back at the hated figure before her. She lunges forward, losing Daniel’s grasp on her shoulders, slashing at the Fox’s throat.

The Fox does not seem to move, does not even sway, but Felina finds herself stumbling, her blade slicing only blackness. Spinning around, she glimpses him behind her and slashes wildly, but her blows cannot connect. His laughter echoes raucous in her ears.

“Did you honestly think,” the Fox cries, laughing as yet another attempt sends Felina staggering, “that you could touch me? Did your girlish fancies so convince you of your own rightness, your own self-worth, that I simply would not be able to stand before you? I saw it all—you fancied yourself the hero of your own sad little story, reaching into the coals to save the Burned Man from himself, delivering Zion and its peoples.”

Felina, exhausted, sinks to one knee, her chest heaving.

“But that’s not how it went, is it?” Yellow fire flares in the Fox’s eyes. “You thought yourself the pinnacle of uprightness, of integrity, and then you handed the Burned Man to his enemies to save your own worthless hide. And to think that you supposed to _love_ him! And how such a betrayal turned out to be for naught—the Burned Man will die, with your gutted carcass at his feet!”

Tears leak from Felina’s eyes. She squeezes them shut, but still the droplets fall, greedily consumed by the blackness, along with everything else.

Then the Fox whispers to her.

“What will you do now, forsaken one?” He says, his breath hot on her neck. “You are abandoned. No help will come for you; see, even the New Canaanite has fled before me.”

Felina’s grasp on the knife wavers. But in her free hand, she feels a gentle grasp sliding into her own.

“Will you come to me?” The Fox’s black teeth are an inch from her ear.

_“Speak His name,”_ comes Daniel’s whisper, _“and He will heed your call.”_

And so Felina opens her mouth and cries out a Name she has not spoken since childhood, far away and long ago.

_“Yeshua! Yeshua, help me!”_

A light pierces the darkness. Like the first bloom through the frost of winter, it surrounds Felina, clear and shining, and she knows with a sudden clarity that it has been there all along. Like music, like starlight, it flows new strength into her veins, and gives protection stronger than any steel.

The Fox roars. “What have you done?” He bellows, hatred blazing in his yellow eyes. But there is terror in his voice, more horrible than his rage. _“What have you_ _done?_ What twisted Name have you evoked?”

Felina rises, staggers to her feet, gripping the knife in her hand with a strength not her own. She looks at the Fox, and raises her weapon.

“You cannot touch me!” The Fox thunders, his own knife flashing into his grip. “I will cut out your pathetic heart!”

He lunges at her, and Felina almost turns to flee. But Daniel’s hands on her shoulders keep her steady. Though the swiftness of the Fox should have evaded her strike with ease, it is as though another hand has covered hers, and is guiding it so that it cannot miss.

Felina parries the oncoming blow, and drives her knife into the Fox’s heart.

A scream shakes the darkness. The Fox falls upon Felina, clawing at her back, his pain and rage a deafening cacophony in her ears. Her own cry is lost under his voice. She closes both hands upon her knife, holding it fast. The darkness itself roars, howling in agony, and it seems as though all life is made up of the never-ending, ravaging shriek of the Fox.

* * *

 

Felina landed on her knees, for there was suddenly no support for her. The Fox was gone, as though he had never been, though her ears still rang with the echoes of his scream. But her heart was light, as though a great weight she had not realized was upon her had now been lifted.

Daniel knelt at her side, a smile in his eyes. “He’s gone,” he said.

“I…I would have run.”

“But you didn’t. And now you need never run again.”

Felina looked up at the New Canaanite, and for a heartbeat, she shared his joy.

Then her old way rushed back in. She drew back, shaking her head, even now reluctant to accept what could no longer be denied.

“I’ve done enough,” she said weakly, “I’ve done as you asked. I’ll never be the same after this, that’s clear enough, but please—let me be.”

“Oh, Felina,” Daniel gazed sadly upon her. “How desperately you run from all that would make you whole.”

Felina could not meet his eyes. “I…I don’t deserve this,” she whispered. “I don’t deserve slavery.”

“What do you deserve, Felina?”

“I deserve my freedom! I deserve my choice! I deserve my own road…”

“Your road is lonesome and long,” Daniel said, and Felina shuddered at his words. But she would not give in.

“I don’t want to be a slave,” she croaked out.

“You are already a slave to yourself,” Daniel replied, taking her hands in his own. “But those who are slaves to the Son are free indeed.”

“How that can possibly be true?”

The New Canaanite smiled. “Will you take up your cross, Felina?” He asked. “Will you, godless, masterless, call Yeshua god and master, this day and forever?”

“I…” for a horrible moment, Felina hesitated. Was this really what she wanted?

But in the end, she realized, was she not no better than the Fox? She was just another mutant among mutants, no better than Caesar or Salt-Upon-Wounds, or any who made themselves their only law, their only standard of truth. At the end of all, Felina knew she could no longer live that way.

“I will,” she whispered. “Forgive my unwilling.”

For a timeless moment, there was silence. Then Felina felt a warm breath on her brow, and Daniel kissed her.

“Praise be to God,” he said. “Now, my work here is done.”

“What?” Felina looked up at him. “You’re leaving?”

Daniel only smiled. “I am just a servant, the same as you,” he said. “Stretch out your hand, and we will meet again. But now I must go. The Lamb waits.”

Then he was gone. Only the light remained.

_Stretch out your hand._

Felina put forth a trembling hand, and found it firmly clasped.

* * *

 

She stood alone in Three Marys caverns. The thick scent of datura smoke still lingered in the air, but it was swiftly fading. Distant torchlight provided just enough illumination for Felina to look down at herself by.

She had done what she had always dreaded. She had given her own life away forever.

And for the first time in all her years, Felina realized that she _lived._

A joyous cry leapt from her lips, echoing in the stone passageways. The pain of her wounds was all but forgotten—no pain could overshadow the surging elation of life that coursed through her veins. She understood now.

There would be questions, she knew. Later, she would struggle with her fulfillment to duty. Later, doubts would return, as they always would. But for a shining moment, Felina understood.

She had to find Joshua, she realized. She had to tell him everything, to apologize for all those times she had mocked him, and she didn’t even care if he said _I told you so._ She had to tell him everything that had happened.

If he was still alive.

All her joy collapsed in that moment of pain, as Felina remembered the current situation. The White Legs. _She._ What if, after everything, the White Legs had killed him after all?

No, she thought resolutely, that couldn’t be. She refused to believe it.

“Courier!”

Felina looked up, and saw a torch bobbing toward her, grasped by a dark hand.

“Do not wander off!” Kore scolded her, “we are almost there.”

She struck off into the dark again, and Felina followed, though this time, unafraid of the shadows that closed in behind them.

Her bare feet padding on the stone, Kore squeezed through a particularly narrow section of passage into a broader section beyond. Felina followed, and saw a white crack in the distance. Daylight.

“Oh, there’s the end!” she exclaimed, starting forward, but another voice caught her ear before she had gone five steps.

“Filly-na?” Came a small voice from the dark, “is that you?”

Daylight was suddenly the last thing on Felina’s mind. There, bound to a thick stalagmite and squinting against the light of Kore’s torch, was a gangly, tattooed figure.

_“Chalk!”_ Felina grabbed Kore’s offered knife and fell beside the tribal, frantically sawing at his bonds and peppering him with questions. “Chalk, oh my god, are you alright? How long have you been in here? Did they hurt you?”

The last fibers of rope parted, and the Dead Horse did not even pause to massage his wrists before flinging his arms around Felina in a crushing embrace.

“I’ve been so worried!” Felina cried, not even caring that his grip aggravated the wounds on her back. “God, I’m so sorry! What I said to you was stupid and dumb, and I was a bad friend for saying it!”

“It is alright,” Chalk reassured her, “I also said stupid and dumb things.”

He pulled back then, and his old impish grin returned. “Though, perhaps not so stupid and dumb as you.”

Felina exhaled a breathless laugh, wiping tears of gladness from her eyes. “Alright, I guess I deserved that,” she admitted.

A faint smile creased even Kore’s normally composed expression. “Come,” she said, “the end is near.”

Her words sobered Felina, who turned to the Dead Horse, helping him up. “Chalk, the White Legs captured Joshua,” she told him. “This…this might be the end for Zion.”

Felina could tell this statement shocked the young tribal, but he put on a brave face, and clasped her hand in his.

“If this is the end of Zion,” he said, “then I am glad to end it among my friends.”

Together, the pair turned toward the distant crack of light.

As they approached, the sounds of war cries and gunfire could be heard from outside. Wild cries, like those of a dying animal, caused Chalk to jerk his head up in recognition.

“Dead Horses!” He exclaimed, breaking into a run. “Joshua needs help!”

“Chalk, wait!” Felina sprinted after him, loose rock crunching beneath her boots, daylight streaming into the cave rendering Kore’s torch unnecessary. The pair burst into the light of day—

—and ran straight into Salt-Upon-Wounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay!! My computer was in the shop, then because I moved before it was fixed, I had to wait for it to be shipped across state lines. But I have it back now, and I'm very excited to have this chapter done! I've been building towards this moment since I first started this story, and I really hope I did it right. Thank you all for your patience, and happy (late) Fourth of July!


	21. I've Brushed the Dew on Jordan's Banks

“There you are, little she-devil!” Salt-Upon-Wounds snarled, seizing Felina’s wrist and twisting it painfully. She cried out, the knife falling from her grasp. Chalk lunged at the painted tribal with his bare hands, only to be seized by two White Legs himself.

“I’ve had quite enough of your trouble,” Salt-Upon-Wounds growled into Felina’s pained face. “How did you escape then, little vixen? Was it some trick of the Burned Man?”

“No,” came a voice from the cave, “it was me.”

Kore stepped from the shadows, as silent and graceful as a doe.

Salt-Upon-Wounds stood like one turned to stone, his blue eyes fixed on the dark-skinned woman. Felina, still with her arm trapped in his vicelike grip, found herself frightened by the emotion displayed on that painted face—the pain, the shock, the…betrayal.

The little group might have stood there for a year or more, but finally the sound of gunfire rapidly approaching seemed to jar Salt-Upon-Wounds into his right mind once more.

“You, take the Dead Horse,” he ordered one of the White Legs holding Chalk. Then, slowly, he turned stricken eyes to the dark woman, and spoke to the other warrior. “And you…bring her as well.”

Without another word, he turned and started down the trail, but Felina could have almost been convinced he had forgotten her existence, had it not been for his vicelike grip on her arm.

Distant battle echoed down the canyon, plumes of smoke from burning tents and brush rising to cast a hazy shroud over the sun. Slowly but surely, the White Legs were being pushed back. But there was nowhere to run.

Splashing across the river, Felina saw upon the bank a sight that nearly drove her to despair. Joshua, his face exposed, bound to a stake and surrounded by a pyre of brush.

The Burned Man’s face was a terrible sight to behold. Charred flesh stretched tightly over his skull, scars from blisters overtop of blisters and countless infections. No hair could push its way through his craggy scalp, his eyes wide and white in the ruined expanse of his face.

“Joshua!” Felina cried, but could speak no more, for Salt-Upon-Wounds had flung her in the dirt. She tried to scrabble away, but White Legs seized her, dragging her to where they had already prepared another stake.

Cries sounded from the clifftops. The Sorrows, who knew Zion better than any living being, slid down the almost vertical slopes with all the agility of mountain goats. Slings thrummed the air, and several White Legs fell to well-aimed stones as the Sorrows swarmed the upper ledges. The remaining Dead Horses could actually be seen now, charging the remaining stretch of riverbank, some limping or clutching at wounds, but still with the light of battle in their eyes.

“It’s over,” Joshua growled up at the White Legs’ chieftain. “You’ve nowhere left to run. Even if you take me life, so shall Zion take yours.”

Salt-Upon-Wounds nearly executed the Burned Man then and there. But he only looked up at the Sorrows above, and a faint smile creased his painted face.

“Beast!”

Zion’s Bane slammed two Dead Horses into the rock wall before the tribals could even register its presence. Those remaining fell back with terrified shouts, splashing back down the river, fleeing the awful presence of _She._

Above, Sorrows cried out, those who had slid almost the entire way down the cliff now scrabbling back up, crazed with the dread of their legend. Some younger warriors began to whirl slings, but when _She_ turned its eyes on them, they screamed and hid their faces.

Felina was bound on her back, her arms stretched painfully above her head, wrists anchored to a stake driven into the hard-packed earth. Her wounds burned, even more so at the sight of Zion’s Bane.

“I think, Legatus,” the disheveled Salt-Upon-Wounds said, turning back to the Burned Man, “it is still _far_ from over.”

Joshua narrowed his eyes, but did not respond, for his concentration was focused on working the sliver of metal from under his bandages. The jagged edge cut into his palm, but he ignored the pain and concentrated on sawing at the tough ropes that bound his hands behind his back.

Then Salt-Upon-Wounds barked again, “Beast!”

Zion’s Bane turned. It passed Joshua, who stared at it with wide, terrified eyes, almost dropping his shard of metal. It passed Chalk, who shut his eyes, and turned his face away as far as the White Leg holding him would allow. It passed Kore, who alone of all saw it for what it was in that moment.

Or, perhaps not entirely alone.

Some thirty feet above, the hide-clad figure of Waking Cloud was almost indistinguishable from the rock face, she sat so still upon the tiny ledge she had claimed. She stared wide-eyed at the slight figure below her as it passed all those assembled to stand before Salt-Upon-Wounds.

A voice on the wind called to her. _See the truth, Waking Cloud!_

Her chest heaving, Waking Cloud gripped her gauntlet, blinking back the tears that scalded her eyes.

_Speak!_

“Beast,” said Salt-Upon-Wounds, hiding his fear at the monstrosity before him, “you may take your lawful prey, that which was twice denied you. And soon, you shall have your name as well.”

 _She_ turned its gaze on Felina’s prone form, who cried out in terror, yanking against her bonds, but they held fast. Joshua roared, tendons standing out on his neck, bellowing his fury at the chieftain.

“Coward! Dog! Spawn of the outer darkness!” Thundered the Burned Man, “You kill her, and nowhere on this earth will be able to hide you from me!”

Salt-Upon-Wounds only gave a cold smile, not taking his eyes from Zion’s Bane.

Movement caught the corner of Joshua’s eye. Glancing over, he saw one of the two White Legs flanking his pyre, gripping a lit torch. And there in the tribal’s waistband protruded the hilt of a pistol, emblazoned with the tiny icon of a woman clothed in the sun.

The monstrous yao guai loomed over Felina like a mountain. The woman had ceased her struggles, fear rendering her paralyzed, her heart thundering in her chest.

“Oh, and beast,” Salt-Upon-Wounds stood off to one side, his arms crossed. “Take your time.”

 _She_ stood with its massive forelegs braced on either side of its quarry. Sparks fell from its hide, but they did not singe where they landed on her skin.

“Felina!” Came Joshua’s voice, though she could not tear her eyes away from the monster above her. “Felina, don’t be afraid!”

Zion’s Bane saw the change in expression of the woman below it. No less terror, certainly, but there broke across her face the emotion of one preparing to die.

**You love him.**

_She_ spoke to them, to both of them at once. Felina saw it spoke to her, even as Joshua perceived it spoke to him.

**She hurt you.**

Neither could respond, but _She_ read a response in blue eyes, in brown eyes.

**You have hated him.**

Two pairs of eyes closed, lines of tears streaking down a pale face, down a burned face.

**But you love her.**

“What are you doing?” Salt-Upon-Wounds snarled, knowing the beast was talking, but unable to perceive its words. “Don’t stand there staring! I have an oath to claim!”

 _She_ turned back to Felina. It lifted a massive paw, embers falling from black claws like slivers of obsidian, hovering over the place where her heart was wildly beating. Felina looked into its deep, deep eyes.

And Zion’s Bane said to her the same as it had said when it stood amidst the ruins of a caravan.

**Forgive me, outlander.**

Gently, slowly, the razor claws pierced her breast. Drops of blood welled from four tiny wounds, staining her shirt. Felina gasped.

The last fibers parted, and Joshua lunged. Snatching the pistol from the waistband of the White Leg beside him, he aimed it at the monster before him and fired once.

Bullets would not touch Zion’s Bane. But the Burned Man was not aiming for its hide.

A band of metal shattered, falling from the flames of _She’s_ neck. Still in motion, Joshua dove and caught the object before it could hit the ground, then turned and flung it as high as he could in the same instant that Salt-Upon-Wounds’ hand flew to his power fist.

A micro-explosion momentarily lit up the canyon like a second sun, the sound rebounding between the rock walls. Dust and metal particles rained down on the heads of _She,_ Salt-Upon-Wounds, Joshua, and all those present.

“You’re free,” Joshua growled to Zion’s Bane, who stood looking up at the fading cloud of smoke. “You may take your vengeance.”

 _She_ stood, staring at the tendrils of smoke now being dispersed into the air. It gave one long, slow blink.

Then it turned its burning eyes upon Salt-Upon-Wounds.

 **You do not know my name,** it said, and the dread of its voice rumbled down into the very bones of all those listening, for now all heard, and cried out in terror. **_You never knew my name!_**

Salt-Upon-Wounds lurched back, utter terror on his face at the creature he had controlled now free, and which was pacing toward him with the inevitability of death.

“Kill it!” He screamed to his remaining warriors, who immediately opened fire on the monstrous yao guai, but it would not be harmed.

The chieftain stumbled and fell, and Zion’s Bane planted its massive paw upon his chest, trapping him there. Its obsidian fangs bared, fire flickering in the recesses of its maw as it prepared to rend its enslaver in pieces.

Then, through the din of gunfire and the screams of Salt-Upon-Wounds, the creature trapped in a death of a life heard something it had not recognized since it first wandered from the Narrows to play in the caves, many long years ago.

It heard its mother’s song.

_My bright and shining Morning Sun_

_Won’t you come home to me?_

_She_ turned its fathomless eyes to the base of the red rock cliffs, where a Sorrows woman allowed her gauntlet to fall into the dirt and extended her hands toward the creature, her face streaked with tears.

“My lovely child,” Waking Cloud said, “forgive me. Please, come home.”

Zion’s Bane turned from Salt-Upon-Wounds. It passed the White Legs, who ceased fire and cowered from its presence. It passed Felina, now unbound, and Joshua at her side, both of whom drew away from it, filled with fear.

It passed all these and stood before Waking Cloud, small and scarred, forever living, forever dying. But she looked on her child with love in her eyes.

 “My Morning Sun,” the woman said, kneeling and cupping the scarred little face that so resembled hers. “You are mine. I was a liar to have ever denied it. You are mine, and your name is Morning Sun.”

 **Mother,** said _She,_ and tears shone bright, like stars in the voids of its eyes. **My name is Morning Sun.**

The assembled tribes fell back as the colossal yao guai turned and paced on silent feet to the midst of the canyon. It looked back at its mother, and for the first time in all the dark years of its existence, it knew that it was loved.

Zion’s Bane flamed.

The furnace of its heart, kindled over the long years of its wanderings, was now hot enough to drive back all who stood within twenty feet of it. Fire leapt in showers of embers, catching onto Salt-Upon-Wounds’ tent, catching on the pyre intended for Joshua, latching onto anything within reach. The tribes of Zion leapt behind boulders, into the river, anywhere the flames could not touch. The rock beneath _She_ took the burning, and only Salt-Upon-Wounds did not turn his face away.

The tongues of flame ceased. The rock where the Ghost of _She_ had stood was now blasted smooth.

All that remained were twenty obsidian claws.

The camp of the White Legs was burning. Smoke billowed into the hazy sky, casting a grey veil over the sun’s light.

But Zion’s Bane was gone. The assembled tribes stared openmouthed at the place where it had stood, at what they had witnessed. For some seconds, there was only silence.

Then Chalk ran to Felina, and together the two embraced Joshua, laughing and crying at once. He held them both, and the overwhelming pain of his exposed flesh was momentarily forgotten. They were safe. Zion was safe.

Only it wasn’t.

Lifting his head, Joshua saw Salt-Upon-Wounds, who still stood, staring at the four small piles of obsidian claws lying amidst the blasted rock.

Flames rose in his eyes. The Burned Man gently pushed Chalk and Felina from him.

Felina turned to follow his gaze, and her heart dropped, all relief leaving her with the realization that he could still be lost to them. She caught his wrist as he started to move past her, his charred flesh rough against her palm.

“Joshua,” she begged him, “please…please don’t.”

But her words turned to ash in his ears. He took her hand, and gently but firmly pried her fingers loose from his wrist.

“Happy shall he be, Courier,” Joshua said, and his voice burned. “That rewardeth thee as thou hast served us.”

Salt-Upon-Wounds looked up just as Joshua ploughed into him like a ton of bricks. Catching the pale figure about the waist, the Burned Man slammed him to the ground. The surrounding tribals raised a cry and leapt back, forming a loose ring around the pair.

“Legatus!” Salt-Upon-Wounds spat, funneling all his pain and anger into hate and flinging it at Joshua. Sand churned beneath the pair as the tribal drove his power fist into the side of the Burned Man’s jaw, sending him heavily on his side and allowing the White Leg to roll free.

“Joshua, stop!” Felina cried, “you’ve already won! You don’t have to kill him!”

But the Burned Man was beyond hearing. He stared at Salt-Upon-Wounds through flame-shrouded eyes. So many. So many loved ones had fallen to the hated figure before him, to the one whose favor he sought to earn.

“Will you listen to your woman, Legatus?” Salt-Upon-Wounds sneered. The pair circled one another, each looking for an opening. “Kill me, and prove yourself the monster you always were, or let me live, and prove yourself a coward, unwilling to even serve justice for all your friends who I slaughtered.”

Memories flashed through Joshua’s mind, that of a burning city, of his friends and family nailed still alive to the cliffsides. Of Daniel, and a lonely grave atop a red rock cliff.

With a roar, Joshua charged. Darting around another blow from the power fist, he caught the chieftain’s outstretched arm and used it to swing around, driving his free elbow into Salt-Upon-Wounds’ gut. Air left his lungs in a rush, but the White Leg recovered swiftly and wrapped his other arm around Joshua’s throat in a stranglehold.

“You think yourself greater?” Salt-Upon-Wounds snarled into the flailing man’s ear. “After everything you’ve done? I’ve heard the stories, Legatus, I’ve heard them all. Thirty sordid years, and now you think yourself _better?_ Somehow _worthy_ of a god who abandoned you the moment you rallied the Blackfeet?”

Decades of experience kept the Burned Man’s wits about him, and he did not lose his head for even a moment as his supply of air was cut off. He allowed his knees to buckle, all his weight dropping, and Salt-Upon-Wounds stumbled as his grip was wrenched downward with him.

Surging upright once more, the Burned Man spun around and delivered two swift punches, one of which was blocked on the White Legs’ power fist, but the other of which connected with his jaw. Spitting blood, Salt-Upon-Wounds leapt aside as Joshua charged, then turned and drove his heel into the back of the other man’s knees. Joshua snarled and fell on all fours. When he tried to struggle upright, Salt-Upon-Wounds delivered a kick to his side that sent him tumbling in the dirt, gasping from pain.

“I need no beast to defeat you,” Salt-Upon-Wounds said, his voice ragged from exertion, and from the smoke that filled the canyon. “The great god of which you speak has made you weak. Burn, Legatus, and perhaps the Legion shall honor your death yet.”

Breathing heavily, Joshua rolled onto his side. And as he did, his hand fell upon the hilt of Maria still stuck into his waistband. The surrounding tribes made shooting too dangerous to risk, but it was a weapon nonetheless.

Staggering upright with renewed vigor, the Burned Man gripped the gun by the barrel and lunged at Salt-Upon-Wounds. Having been expecting Joshua to shoot at him, the chieftain was caught off guard by this unorthodox move. Two blows of the pistol glanced off his power fist, but the third struck him squarely across the face. Before he could recover, Joshua dropped and swept the painted man’s feet out from under him. As Salt-Upon-Wounds struggled to his knees, blood oozing from a broken nose, Joshua lowered himself until blue eyes stared into blue eyes.

“You have brought shame upon Zion,” the Burned Man snarled, his ruined face inches from the tribal’s painted one. “For that, you will perish, like the dog you are.”

“Kill me then,” Salt-Upon-Wounds growled back, “and prove to men and gods who you truly are.”

With a cry of rage, Joshua raised his weapon, and brought the hilt cracking down across Salt-Upon-Wounds’ face. Then again, and again, and again. He imagined that it was Caesar he struck, and each successive blow was retribution for thirty years of lies, thirty years of anger, thirty years of regrets. Again and again he struck, blood slinging from each blow, and the sensation gave him an awful pleasure that was very like pain.

“Joshua!”

Dimly, he heard the distant cry calling his name, but the flames climbed higher, blotting it out. All he could hear were his own mad cries of exertion.

“Stop it,” Felina screamed, “stop it, _please!”_

Somehow, the desperate plea broke through, and the Burned Man faltered. All his tremendous strength was scarcely able to hold back the next blow. His arm wavered, upraised; a hair in either direction and it would fall once more, and this time there would be no stopping it.

His ruined face twisted with indescribable emotion, Joshua spun Maria around and aimed it at the man kneeling before him. So close. So close to vengeance. Just one pull of the trigger, and Daniel would be avenged, New Canaan would be avenged, countless unknown innocents would be avenged. But something, however temporary, held him back.

“Look at you,” Salt-Upon-Wounds sneered. His blue eyes were as fiery as ever, even as his voice slurred through swollen lips. “Pathetic ruin of a man. You think your burning is your strength? You’re just a rabid dog, raging against a chain of your own making. Kill me, and that chain will break. Kill me, and revel in the truth of yourself.

“Abandon this futile restraint, just as your great god has abandoned you.

“Kill me, Legatus. Kill me, and burn forever in your own beloved fire.”

For a moment suspended in time, a silent war was waged that outmatched any Great War; the war of one man against himself. The weapon shook in his hand, so tightly did his charred fist close upon it. Nearby, Felina clasped the hand of Follows-Chalk, her lips moving in silent, stumbling prayers. Waking Cloud cradled razor claws to her heart, her pleading face upturned to heaven. Anticlea Kore watched in quiet contemplation, ready to receive whatever verdict fell, even flame. The silence was long, and all those present, from Dead Horses to Sorrows to White Legs, strained for its ending.

Salt-Upon-Wounds spat blood. “Kill me,” he said.

Joshua flexed his grip upon the hilt of the pistol.

Then he flung the weapon away from him. “No.”

Like the first ray of sunlight piercing the storm clouds.

Like the first drop of water upon a parched tongue.

Like the first breath of spring upon the frozen earth.

“What?” Salt-Upon-Wounds’ bloodshot eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”

 _“No!”_ Joshua bellowed, and the tribal flinched back as though struck with the heat of a furnace. For now the Burned Man’s voice was swelling, spilling from his ruined lips, along with his pain, along with his flame.

“I want to,” he snarled, his voice hoarse from exertion. “God only knows how much I want to. But you will keep me from Him no more! I will give you back your mongrel life, and you will live the rest of your cast-down days knowing that the Legion will never have you now. That even with the power of _She_ on your side, you could not secure your victory.”

Joshua went on, his charred fists clenched, his voice rebounding between the smoke-shrouded cliffs. “Even if only Caesar knows the truth, every tribe and tongue from the Blackfeet to the Twisted Hairs will hear of how a dead man beat you!”

He seized a fistful of the tribal’s braids, jerking his head back to roar into his painted face: _“Zion beat you!”_

The surrounding tribes looked on in stunned silence at the man before them. A man who knew his own depravity, and knew that he could not overcome it, and thus was giving it up to something higher than himself. A man who had ceased to deny that truth which, as Daniel had said, was sorrow and pain, but which was a wonder beyond any that had not learned it could yet understand.

His chest heaving, the Burned Man’s knees hit the hard-packed earth. His charred hand closed on the back of Salt-Upon-Wounds’ neck, terrible strength forcing their heads close together. And Joshua’s voice rasped like gravel into the chieftain’s ear:

_“Run.”_

A chill like icy water ran down Salt-Upon-Wounds’ spine. Joshua continued, “Run, like the mongrel you are. But know this…”

Dead silence reigned in the smoky camp, but not even those nearest the pair could hear what the Burned Man next said. His voice dropped to a pitch that was for Salt-Upon-Wounds alone.

“Know that if I, or any of my allies, _ever_ see your face again,” Joshua warned, his fingers digging into the back of the chieftain’s neck, “this mercy will not be extended a second time.”

With these words, Graham stood, his shoulders suddenly heavy with tiredness. He retrieved Maria from where it had fallen, and turned away from Salt-Upon-Wounds, back towards Felina, Chalk, and the Dead Horses. Back towards his family.

Felina stood with one hand gripping Chalk’s, the other clapped over her mouth. Smoke burned her eyes and lungs, but she was focused solely on the haggard, dust-covered figure pacing slowly towards them. Then she found herself breaking away from Chalk and starting forward until she stood in front of the Burned Man. She looked up at him, but could find no words to speak. So instead she wrapped her arms around him, and gripped him as though her life depended on it.

“You did it, Joshua,” she whispered, tears of gladness creating streaks down her smoke-smeared face. “God did it.”

The damaged nerve endings in the Burned Man’s hands could scarcely feel Felina’s hair beneath his touch. But he returned her embrace, holding her to him like a shield, and did not even notice when darkness rose up to meet him.


	22. Clouds and Storms Will in Time Pass Away

“Joshua—Joshua!” Felina cried, staggering under the Burned Man’s weight sagging upon her. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing. “Oh, my god, Chalk—help me carry him from all this smoke!”

Now that the fight was over, the tribes began to realize the reality of the burning camp, and the danger of the smoke that had gone previously unnoticed. Dead Horses, Sorrows and White Legs fled the canyon like rabbits before a wildfire. Felina and Chalk slung one arm apiece over their shoulders, dragging Joshua between them, following the bloodstained riverbank in its winding path toward greater Zion.

Salt-Upon-Wounds watched them go, still kneeling where Joshua had left him. Smoke clogged his lungs, darkness beginning to encroach on the edges of his vision, his face a bloodied mess. He slumped to one side, only to be caught in strong arms. Looking up, he saw a dark face above him, framed by long braids.

Puffing from effort, Felina and Chalk bore Joshua’s limp form for what seemed an eternity along the winding riverbank. Bodies of Dead Horses and White Legs lay here and there, marks of battle rampant throughout the Three Marys. Living tribals darted past them at odd intervals, vanishing into the smoke that still lay heavy in the windless canyon.

Finally, the rock walls broadened out, and another fork joined the river, signaling the merging of Three Marys with greater Zion. With wind to carry it away, the smoke began to clear, allowing rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds to shine down on a victorious Zion.

Chalk and Felina carefully laid Joshua down on the bank. Blood stained the white of his shirt, some of it his, some of it not. Sand and dirt covered his exposed hands, his arms, his face. Felina checked his pulse.

“He’s alive,” she sighed, relief flooding through her. “I guess I can’t blame him. After all that, I wish I could have the luxury of passing out, too.”

“Hm!” Chalk studied the Burned Man’s exposed face in fascination. Fresh air was beginning to return his skin to its natural—albeit not particularly healthy—pallor. “Another Beautiful Sleeper, then! He looks almost as un-beautiful as you, Filly-na!”

“What!” Indignation flared in Felina’s eyes. “Why, you absolute—I’ll show you!”

Elbowing the laughing Chalk out of the way, she bent over Joshua’s unmoving form. She took his face in her hands, her skin pale against his burned flesh. Then she bent her head and planted one right on his charred and blackened mouth.

Before Chalk could pick his jaw up off the ground, Felina drew back and shouted into Joshua’s face: “Wakey, wakey, old man, before I teach Chalk every four-letter word I know!”

Whether from the shock of her kiss or the threat of her words, the Burned Man stirred. He blinked, unseeing for a heartbeat, before his vision cleared and he saw Felina’s face, their noses a hair’s breadth apart.

“Felina,” he said, bewildered, his voice rasping even more than usual from smoke, “…hello?”

“Hi! How you feeling?”

Joshua tried to sit up and winced. “I’ve been better,” he admitted, allowing Felina and Chalk to pull him into a sitting position. His hands shook with the pain of his exposed flesh, but this went unnoticed, for he placed a hand to his chest, and there discovered a wonder.

The flame was gone. The burning, consuming pain kindled over the long years of his life, was taken away. And in its place was a new fire, one with a purity like scalding water, consuming nothing, yet giving life all the same.

He must have spaced out, for the next thing he knew, Felina was waving a hand in front of his face. “Hey, earth to Joshua, look who’s coming.”

Looking up, the Burned Man saw back into the smoke of Three Marys, where a figure could be seen rounding the last bend. Kore emerged from the canyon smoke, a pale, painted figure upon her shoulders. Her footprints sank deep into the sand as she set down a bloodied, coughing Salt-Upon-Wounds.

The dark-skinned woman helped the chieftain stand, pushing his braids out of his face while he expelled the remaining smoke from his lungs. He straightened, and stared at Kore through watering blue eyes.

“Are you alright?” She asked him, her painted brow creased with concern.

Salt-Upon-Wounds looked as though he had swallowed nightstalker venom. Some of the paint had rubbed off his face, and the meager sun filtering through the clouds made him look so very pale, so very sallow. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet that only those standing nearest could hear, and those that did turned away and wished they had not.

“You betrayed me,” he said.

Kore met his eyes, but said nothing.

“You betrayed me. The one person in all this world who I have trusted completely. I saved you. I _loved_ you. And you betrayed me.”

The dark woman looked up at him, and her face lost the mask of composure that so dominated her expression. She reached up and cupped his face in gentle hands, as he had so often done to her. When she spoke, it was with all sincerity.

“You did love me, Salt-Upon-Wounds, but you never saved me. I never loved you, but I have saved you.”

She stroked his bloodied cheekbone with the pad of her thumb. “But if I cannot save you from yourself, then so be it.”

Salt-Upon-Wounds drew back from her touch, unable to bear her words or her face. He turned away, and the remaining White Legs saw a pain they had never before seen on any chieftain of theirs.

Joshua, now standing, a protective arm in front of Felina and Chalk, watched as the disgraced chieftain began walking on unsteady feet. To his own surprise, he found that he no longer felt anger towards the other man, but instead almost pitied him.

The red rock of Zion swallowed up Salt-Upon-Wounds. The remaining White Legs began to do likewise, scattering into the wilderness, leaderless. At a nod from Joshua, Dead Horses followed on silent feet, to ensure they left Zion for good.

Kore stood in silence, looking in the direction Salt-Upon-Wounds had gone. She only turned away when Felina touched her arm.

“What will you do now?” the Courier asked softly, awed by the grace this woman had given to the man who served her tribe’s destroyers.

The dark woman shook her head. “Don’t know,” she said simply, though unafraid. “My home is gone.”

Felina chewed her lip for several seconds, running her fingertips along the knots of the braid Kore had given her. It was the least she could do, she finally decided.

“You know, if you wanted,” she said at last, “you could follow the Long 15 north until you reach the New Jerusalem ruins, then turn northeast and keep on the east side of the mountains. Follow them north until you see three of the biggest peaks you’ve ever seen, with a river running past the base. That’s when you’ve reached Grand Teton, where I grew up. Along the riverbank, you’ll find a cabin with a ghoul living in it. Tell them Felina sent you, and…I’ll be home again.”

Here she paused, uncertain. “It’s a long journey,” she warned, “and dangerous, but the folks there are kind. You could begin again.”

Kore nodded slowly, absorbing this information. “Thank you, Courier,” she said, solemn. “I shall do as you’ve said.”

She met Felina’s eyes then, and her gaze turned a little sad. “If you see Crow’s Flight in your travels, tell him…tell him that a thing once broken can never be made whole again. But there can be beauty in broken things, so long as there are eyes to see.”

With these parting words, Anticlea Kore turned, and began walking away from Three Marys, alone, unbound and free. Felina watched her go, until her dark form was swallowed up into the wastes.

Her heart racing as though she’d just run a marathon, the Courier turned back to where Joshua stood supported by Chalk. Beside them stood Waking Cloud, who had arrived unnoticed, still cradling the handful of obsidian claws to her breast, her face streaked with tears.

“Waking Cloud,” Felina said, approaching the Sorrows woman, “I…wow. What you did back there…”

She trailed off, at a loss for words to describe what they had all witnessed, but Waking Cloud, as always, did not seem to notice.

“I saw the truth,” she said, her voice soft, yet not as sad as it had once been. “I saw the truth, and I spoke.”

She smiled then, and Felina realized that it was the first time she had seen her do so. Then she turned and made her way over to where her tribe stood clustered on the bank.

Felina returned to Chalk and Joshua, weariness suddenly weighing upon her. “So that’s it?” She asked, “the White Legs are gone?”

“Without their leader, they will scatter into the wastes,” Joshua replied grimly. “It’s more than we can hope that none of them will integrate into the Legion’s ranks eventually, but far fewer certainly than had they been victorious here.”

He paused, his expression tightening. Felina saw the trembling of his hands; it was clear he was in a lot of pain.

“Come on, old man,” she said, coming onto his other side to help Chalk support him. “Let’s get you home.”

As the three began their slow way back towards the Eastern Virgin, the remaining Dead Horses trailing after them, the first drops of rain began to fall from an overcast sky. Cool and cleansing, it washed the bloodstains from the rock, extinguishing the remaining fires, carrying away all traces of battle from Three Marys.

Zion was free.


	23. Brighter Scenes They Do Now Show

The first thing Joshua heard was the soft crackle of flames eating into wood. His mind clouded by slumber, it took him several seconds before he could open his eyes, but though he could not remember why, he knew there was no hurry now.

Blinking owlishly, the Burned Man turned his head, and saw that he lay upon his mat in Angel Cave. His workbench sat upon its ledge to his right, and to his left was the firepit, and Felina’s bighorner hide beyond. Morning sunlight streamed into the cave entrance, illuminating dust motes drifting between the rays.

Shifting slightly, Joshua winced at the pain of his aching muscles, stark reminders of the previous battle. His shirt and vest sat to one side, neatly folded, and he finally realized why his skin did not burn so badly—every inch of him had been wrapped in clean, white bandages.

Forgoing further attempts at movement, he allowed himself to relax, and offered up a silent prayer of gratitude. Habit urged him to rise and set about routine, but he did not give in to the urge just yet, instead closing his eyes again and allowing his mind to assess at its own pace.

Footsteps crunched outside, and a shadow blocked the sun in the entrance. Felina entered, a basket balanced on her hip, sunlight catching in a few stray hairs making them glimmer like threads of gold. She noticed him immediately, and set down her burden.

“Hey, tough guy,” she smiled, grabbing a canteen and kneeling beside the mat. “Feeling better?”

“Better than I have in a long time,” Joshua replied. His voice cracked on speaking, and he realized his throat was bone-dry. Felina slid an arm under his shoulders, just as he had once done to her, supporting him enough to let him pull the bandages from his mouth and take a few swallows of tepid water.

“White Bird sends his gratitude,” Felina informed him, laying him back down. “He and the Sorrows went back to the Narrows to bury their dead. The Dead Horses have been doing the same, and making sure every White Leg has left the valley.”

“Good,” Joshua murmured. He knew the Dead Horses could take care of themselves, with or without him.

A memory occurred to him then, and he looked up at the woman beside him. “How are your wounds doing?” He asked, trying to struggle upright. “Let me have a look at—”

“Oh no you don’t,” Felina placed a firm hand on his bandaged chest, halting his progress. “You’re not getting up that easily. Waking Cloud stayed to look at me, and she said I’ll be fine as long as I keep applying poultice and don’t go reopening them.”

Joshua glared up at her with the indignance of one unused to being told what to do, but reluctantly lay back down. “Well, thank you for patching me up,” he said gruffly.

“You did the same for me when I first arrived,” Felina reminded him with a smile, “I’m just returning the favor. Chalk gets the short end of the stick; he has to help take care of both of us.”

The Burned Man exhaled a long breath, unused to the lack of tension in his body now that there was no constant threat looming behind every rock. “I wish Daniel were here to see this,” he murmured sadly.

“I miss him, too,” Felina said, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “But he’s waiting for you.”

Here she added, softer, “and, now, for me.”

Joshua looked up at her, startled. “Did—did you—” he stammered out, unable to articulate a sentence.

Felina blushed and looked away, still not ready to speak of what she had seen in Three Marys caverns. But the Burned Man knew.

“Praise be to God,” he murmured, laying his head back down. Then another thought occurred to him, and he felt a flash of remorse. “I…I apologize for lashing out at you the way I did,” he said at length. “My behavior was inexcusable.”

Felina quirked an eyebrow—an apology from Joshua Graham? She would have sooner expected to look outside and see a deathclaw flying through the sky. Even so, the gesture made her feel warm inside.

“I’m sorry, too,” she replied. “If anything, it’s my fault for being inflammatory.”

She paused, realizing her word choice, and blushed again. “No pun intended.”

Joshua chuckled, which only made her face redder, and this in turn made him laugh harder. It felt good to laugh. After having the weight of the world on his shoulders for so, so long, the relief and joy of having it all taken away was such that he could only laugh.

“Joshua!”

The Burned Man scarcely had time to register the patter of bare feet on the earth before a brown blur enveloped him in a hug, squeezing him painfully tight.

“You are alright!” Follows-Chalk cried with glee, his tattooed figure stark against the white of Joshua’s bandages. “I was very worried!”

Joshua returned the hug, noticing how the tribal’s voice was no longer quite so boyish as it had been. Part of him felt a little sad at the realization. Was this what Daniel had meant?

But a larger part of him felt proud. Follows-Chalk had grown. He had survived, learned, experienced. Soon he would be a fully-fledged Dead Horse warrior himself.

“He was very worried,” Felina testified with a laugh, not noticing the minute change in the Burned Man’s expression. Or, perhaps she did, for she then said, “Welcome home.”

* * *

 

One week later, dawn’s pale light turned the cliffs of Zion a warm yellow. Felina trekked up the rocky path to the overlook above Angel Cave, where the Dead Horse camp could be seen spreading below her, and the cliffs of the Eastern Virgin winding away with the river. The air was crisp, clear and cool, drops of dew clinging to the bushes and grass.

Kicking off her boots, Felina assumed first position, her heels planted together, toes pointed out. Slowly, she began cycling through the positions, leaving scuffmarks in the dirt at each pass. She would need all the practice she could get for when she got back to Vegas.

Sadness tinged this thought. Though it seemed like an eternity ago, it had only been a few short weeks since her arrival in Zion. Much as she missed New Vegas and her friends there, the valley felt like a second home. When she left, it would not be for good—a part of her heart would always remain with Joshua and the tribes of Zion.

Her sadness turned bittersweet, Felina braced herself for her next move, one she had not been able to do since arriving in Zion. Her left leg planted solidly on the dirt, she slowly, carefully tilted her hips, drawing up her other leg. Her muscles strained from the effort, but finally, her leg extended straight, her toes pointed at the pale sky.

Accomplishment surged in her veins, a feeling of her dancer’s grace reclaimed. She lowered herself back to a standing position, almost giddy with joy.

“That was beautiful.”

Turning at the unexpected voice, Felina saw Waking Cloud, the Sorrows woman appearing to have sprung from the very rock itself. She carried herself with less grief now, her face unhidden by the mask of indifference. A hide bag hung at her side.

“You will be leaving soon,” the tribal woman said, as though having read Felina’s previous thoughts.

“Yeah,” the Courier replied. “I’ll miss you guys. But I can always come visit.”

Waking Cloud nodded slowly. Then she reached into her bag and drew forth a chain of simple wooden beads. No elaborate engravings decorated them, but hanging from the necklace were five obsidian claws.

“I did not know when you would be leaving,” she admitted, “So I worked quickly to finish yours first. But I will make one for the Burned Man, one for Daniel, and finally one for myself.”

Waking Cloud presented the item to Felina, who took it in awed silence. “Take with you _She’s_ Embrace,” the Sorrows woman said, “and think of your friends in Zion when you wear it.”

Felina stared at the wooden chain in wonder. The claws were still sharp enough to break skin at a touch, shot through with faint streaks of color like oil on water. Looking at the object, she heard again the voice of _She_ as it had stood over her: **Forgive me.**

The Courier looked back up at Waking Cloud, tears in her eyes. Then she surged forward and embraced the other woman.

“Thank you,” Felina whispered, “Thank you, for everything.”

* * *

_Salt-Upon-Wounds wanders the edge of the Grand Canyon. “Can’t be over,” he mutters to himself, “must become Many!”_

_The Bull stands before him, his face one of cold command._

_“Lord!” Cries the tribal, falling to his knees, “Your oath! Fulfill your oath!”_

_The Bull gazes down on the painted form before him, his lip curled in disgust. “I gave you everything you needed,” he says, “and still you failed.”_

_“You swore to me!” Salt-Upon-Wounds cries, “You said that when New Canaan was dead, my tribe would join the Many!”_

_“And yet,” observes the Bull, his voice dripping contempt, “New Canaan is not dead.”_

_He turns away from the tribal’s pathetic figure. “You are of no further use to me.”_

_Then he is gone, and the Fox stands in his place._

_“All roads lead to me in time,” he says, and smiles. His knife flashes into his palm. Salt-Upon-Wounds screams, spinning about to hurtle into the Grand Canyon. But a grip like claws catches him before he can make the plunge, dragging him back._

_The sound of his screams is dreadful. But there is no one to hear._

* * *

 

_A soft wind combed through the long grass, ruffling the hair of the man leaning against a rough wooden fence. It stretched in both directions as far as the eye could see, bisected only by a narrow dirt path, and a simple gate of wood. The path wound away into the rolling green hills behind the man, and beyond, glimpses could be seen of a shining city, and echoes heard of that distant and beautiful song. There was no sun, for there was no need—light shone and illuminated all, for here, there was no darkness at all._

_Daniel waited patiently, elbows propped on the wood of the fence, warmth of light on his back. Shining beings unbound by forms of flesh flickered overhead at odd intervals, but his eyes were focused on the one approaching along the dirt path._

_Morning Sun approached, without that cruel bear’s shape, without those ugly scars that had ravaged her form. Her eyes were deeper and more beautiful than before, for they shone without the fire of_ She.

_“Hello,” Daniel said, smiling at the slight figure before him. “I believe we’ve already met.”_

_Morning Sun looked at him, her brow furrowed in childlike curiosity. “Where are we?” She asked him, “This place, it feels familiar, but I do not know it.”_

_“This is Zion,” Daniel replied, turning to look over the green country. “The true Zion. The land we knew was only a shadow of this place.”_

_“I see.” Morning Sun looked at the gate, which now stood open, and sudden sorrow was in her eyes. “How can I be here?” She asked, “After what I did? After what I did to you? How can you love me still?”_

_“Ah, love comes easily to me,” Daniel said, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I do as I must do, for the sake of Another who loves you, and who named you before you were born.”_

_Morning Sun stepped forward, toward the gate. “Is this so?” She asked, “I think I would like to meet this person.”_

_She passed unhindered through the gate. Daniel extended a hand to her. “Shall we go together?”_

_Hand in hand, man and child ambled down the path, towards the city and towards the song, until the green hills of Zion swallowed them up into glory._


	24. Studying About That Good Old Way

So it was that Felina found herself on the bank of the Eastern Virgin, bidding farewell to Follows-Chalk by the light of dawn. The young Dead Horse hugged her so tightly she thought she heard a bone pop in her back.

“Come back soon!” He said, bravely fighting back tears. “Bring back stories from the civilized lands!”

Here he paused and amended his statement, “From the un-civilized lands!”

Felina laughed, unable to keep tears of her own from escaping. Her bag upon her shoulder and her shotgun slung across her back, she adjusted her helmet under her arm and turned to where Joshua stood waiting.

“Ready?” He asked her.

“Not really,” Felina admitted.

Together the two splashed into the river. Before they rounded the bend, Felina turned once more to wave back at Follows-Chalk. Then Angel Cave and the Dead Horses camp were swallowed by the cliffs.

The pair talked little along the route, preferring to take in the beauty of a peaceful Zion in silence. They passed Three Marys, now empty save for a small herd of bighorners grazing on the upper cliffs. They passed the cairns of stones marking the graves of the Happy Trails caravan, and Felina felt She’s Embrace a little heavier about her neck. But this too passed behind them.

Finally, just as the sun was reaching its zenith, Joshua and Felina stood on the side of a shattered highway leading out of Zion. Utah State Route 9 stretched into the distant desert, rocky mesas jutting their sharp angles against the horizon.

“Follow Route 9 until it intersects the Long 15,” Joshua instructed, squinting against the sun to study the horizon. “Then you know the way. A straight shot all the way to Vegas.”

Here he looked at Felina, and his tone became almost sad. “Zion will miss you, Courier.”

Felina smiled at him. “It’s not like I’ll be gone forever. Maybe when I come back, you’ll get to dunk me in the river. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

Joshua chuckled. Then he reached into his vest and drew forth a weathered and beaten book. “When New Canaan burned, many of our Bibles were lost,” he said. “Daniel and I were only able to save one extra between us. I have been keeping it, waiting for the right person to give it to. I think that person is you.”

He pressed the worn leather into Felina’s hands. “Our Lord stands at the door and knocks; we need only answer.”

Felina held the book, testing its weight. The lettering on the cover was faded, its edges torn. Water stains marred the fine leather. But its words remained.

“Thank you, Joshua,” she said sincerely, placing the book carefully into her pack, so that its pages would not be folded or torn. “My Gran will be happy to hear it.”

After a moment’s consideration, the Burned Man met her gaze, and the timbre of his voice could have melted steel. “May I kiss you?” He asked her.

Felina blinked, color flooding her cheeks, all ability for speech suddenly deserting her. “Um. Uh?”

Behind the bandages, the corners of Joshua’s eyes crinkled. “Is that a yes?”

Felina could only give a wordless nod. The Burned Man cupped her face with one hand, the other pulling down the bandages from over his mouth. Then he bent his head and pressed his charred lips to her brow. His kiss was full of fire, but it was a fire not his own.

“Safe travels, Courier,” he said, drawing back. “Go with God.”

Wordless, Felina turned, a sudden smile on her face. She struck out onto the ruined highway, turning back once to wave at Joshua’s distant figure, then setting her face once more towards the lights of Vegas.

Joshua Graham watched her go, until her silhouette faded into the distance. Then he turned back towards the red cliffs of Zion. Towards home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends the longest continuous project I've ever written! Thank you everyone for your comments, shoutout to @kourumi on Tumblr for their feedback, and I hope everyone enjoyed this adventure as much as I did!


	25. Epilogue

_“You sure about this, boss?”_

Raul’s words echoed in Felina’s mind as she braced herself, and pushed all her weight against the rusted wheel holding shut the grate entrance. It took several attempts, but finally the metal gave way, slowly turning with an ear-splitting screech.

_“Yeah, totally,”_ she had replied, shouldering her shotgun in the Lucky 38’s High Roller Suite. _“What could go wrong?”_

At this remark, the old ghoul had folded his arms and given her his best _abuelo_ glare. _“I’m just saying,_ chica, _folks who go after that signal don’t have a habit of ever being seen again. Did you know the Old World had a story just like this, called Odysseus and the Sirens?”_

_“Yeah, yeah, but Sirens aren’t real,”_ Felina had waved a hand dismissively, trying not to let on the nervous butterflies his words were stirring in her gut. _“And Odysseus didn’t have a shotgun.”_

Her boots clanking on the metal ladder, Felina descended into the shadowy bunker. Checking her Pip-Boy to make sure the signal was still strong—it was, and getting stronger with every step—she flicked on the weak green light and readied her shotgun. Raul’s farewell rang in her ears, _“Be careful,_ mija.”

The metal corridor seemed longer than it was. Judging from the footprints in the dust on the floor, Felina clearly wasn’t the first visitor, but for now, the place seemed unoccupied. At least, no noise issued from the deeper shadows beyond the reach of the Pip-Boy’s light. The walls were spray-painted with graffiti; the emblem of the winged sword signaling the Brotherhood of Steel’s former residency, but others were clearly wastelander-wrought. _Gone to Sierra Madre_ , and other similar messages indicated that the Courier was far from the first adventurer to seek out the ruinous place.

Reaching a fork in the path, Felina paused, carefully surveying her surroundings, ready for anything. To her right, the hall was caved in by rubble and inaccessible. To her left, the metal walls extended only a few meters to a metal door locked by a terminal. Felina decided against attempting to hack it for the moment, as her computer skills were far from proficient.

Looking back, she took some comfort in the ladder, with its beam of daylight still streaming in and illuminating drifting dust motes. Escape was always an option.

Setting her face once more to the blackness ahead, Felina readied her shotgun and continued her way into the bunker. Outside, her steps might have been totally silent, but in the pressing stillness of the bunker, every small grind of her sole against the debris-littered floor sounded deafening. On top of that, she was beginning to hear noise from up ahead—the sound of a woman talking. A few more steps, and it was apparent that the source of the noise was repeating the same radio signal that had led Felina to the bunker in the first place.

Finally, the walls broadened out into another room, this one an apparent dead end. Bunk beds lined the walls, rotting mattresses faintly visible in the Pip-Boy’s weak light. But these were of the least interest to Felina—she was focused on the stand in the center of the room, amidst the assorted debris littering the floor. Atop the pedestal sat an Old World radio, but of a far more fancy variety than those often found in the wastes. It issued its lavish message on a permanent loop, the same that had been received by the Pip-Boy.

Curious, Felina lowered her weapon and approached the object. It seemed so ordinary, and yet no one who had followed after the signal had ever come back, so the tales said. What was so dangerous about an old radio?

As if in answer to her question, the Courier’s ears caught the shifting of a heavy weight across the metal floor behind her. Whirling around, Felina leveled her shotgun at the nearest corner. There, wedged partially behind a bunk bed and practically indistinguishable from the shadows surrounding it, was a dark, featureless mass. Featureless, save for the two points of light staring back at her in the weak glow of the Pip-Boy.

Knowing it had been seen, the mass surged upright, rising almost to the ceiling some nine feet overhead. It launched itself at Felina, seizing her shotgun by the barrel in a hand the size of her head and wrenching it from her grasp. Lurching backwards away from the thing, Felina went for Maria, but this too was knocked from her grasp to clatter away into the darkness.

The creature stamped toward her with an animal snarl, as unstoppable as a tidal wave, and seized Felina in two huge hands, lifting her bodily from the ground. She flailed wildly, but she may as well have been striking at a boulder for all the result her struggles yielded. The thing’s grip tightened about her ribs, crushing the air from her lungs. The aimless beam of the Pip-Boy illuminated for an instant the word _DOG_ carved across a barrel-like chest. Felina screamed.


End file.
